


I'll See You With Your Laughter Lines

by CallieB



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Clown!Derek, Derek Is Healthy, Future Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-01
Updated: 2017-09-01
Packaged: 2018-12-22 15:47:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11970558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CallieB/pseuds/CallieB
Summary: bubblessunshinedelightprompted on tumblr:Derek and Stiles are not dating but they're working towards it. Derek is unfortunate enough to get cursed by a witch who doesn't like rejection. So he has on a permanent clown outfit and make up; his closet only consists of clown-wear and the make up won't wash off his face. To break the curse he has to make his true love laugh. Which sucks because Stiles has a clown phobia and is avoiding Derek and his clown face at all costs. Can sneak the Sheriff in too? -Bubbles SunnyD





	I'll See You With Your Laughter Lines

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bubblessunshinedelight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bubblessunshinedelight/gifts).



> Lovely Bubbles SunnyD, I'm so super sorry that your prompt took so long! And I'm also sorry that I changed it a tiny bit to make it fit, but I hope you like it anyway :) I really enjoyed writing this for you! It turned into an absolute monster but it was so much fun - thank you for being so patient!
> 
>  
> 
> I do take prompts, but as the lovely Bubbles will attest, I make no guarantees on how long it takes me to fill them because I have about six millions WIPs! Hit me up for Sterek or Thiam on [tumblr](https://13callieb.tumblr.com/) :)

It’s October, and the leaves are yellowing and faded on the spindly trees that line Derek’s drive. The grass is sparse, rough underfoot when he pads across it on wolf’s paws, and every pathway is a broiling mass of sticky pine needles and dead leaves. The graves he laid – or memorial stones, really, since so few of them have bodies beneath them – have been there long enough for moss to begin creeping along the weathered stone. He put them in a circle underneath the tree where he and Peter had once carved their initials as teenagers, because it’s large and smells like home and it feels like it might protect them.

Peter would say – well, he _has_ said – that it’s time to move on, and perhaps he’s right. Agreeing with Peter; it’s a new low, really, and he can only imagine the hefty eye roll Stiles would give him if he were to voice the thought, but. He’s had enough of being crushed by the weight of all the people he’s lost. He wants to move on.

Cora likes to come out and sit in the centre of the circle of stones sometimes; he watches her from the upstairs window, her hair a dark curtain hiding her face from view in the grey damp of the very early morning. She wears black, mostly, and sometimes she lets her face relax into the shift. Once, when Derek happened to be driving home from picking up some groceries, he heard her singing from between the trees. It’s nice. It feels like the right thing.

“Moving on,” she repeats sceptically, when he tells her what Peter said. She looks up at him in that scornful way she has, and he tries to ignore the swooping frightened feeling in the pit of his stomach that tells him she’s disappointed in him. “That’s what you’re doing?”

“I want to,” he says, almost as though he’s asking her permission.

Cora snorts. “Alright,” she says. “Good luck.”

Derek can feel his face changing, the beginnings of the shift; he ignores it, and it subsides. “What?” he says. “Why are you – what?”

She’s sitting on the edge of the kitchen table, and she swings her legs, her shoulders hunching. She doesn’t wear a lot of make-up, never has as far as he can tell, but her face is still striking, expressive. “Well,” she says, and stops. “Derek. You do have this tendency to, like… obsess. Over the past.”

“They died,” he says quietly. “They all died. Even you. It wasn’t… It’s not an obsession.”

Cora nods, acknowledging the point. “I know,” she says. “Okay.”

“I was there,” Derek says. “You – I can’t forget it. I can’t – I still have dreams. And Laura—” He halts, feeling oddly breathless. “I just want to be happy again,” he says pathetically.

“I get that,” she says. “It’s just… Der, I can’t remember you being happy. Even before.” She hesitates. “Paige,” she says softly.

“I know,” Derek says, and doesn’t tell her that one of the stones in the circle is for Paige. She almost certainly knows, anyway.

“Okay,” she says, and then she smiles. It’s unexpectedly beautiful, and he feels a rush of affection for his sister. “So,” she says. “Moving on. Let’s do it.”

So they move on. Derek finds, to his consternation – and Cora’s amusement – that he doesn’t really know what that means. He’s never really actively attempted happiness, always accepting dully that that was the sort of thing that happened to other people, and consequently he’s not very good at it. He can’t forget – still wakes up in the early hours of the morning with fire blazing through his body, trembling and damp with sweat – but Cora informs him that it’s not about forgetting. It’s about learning to live with it.

He likes the principle of it, at least. He’s not really been living, all these years; he’s been surviving. The trouble is, he’s not sure he knows the difference.

“You need to get out more,” Cora tells him robustly. “Hang out with your friends.” She grins wickedly. “Go on a date.”

Braeden isn’t in town, so Derek goes with the former option and texts Isaac. There’s a strong possibility that Cora was going for a dig – trying to point out how few friends he actually has – but it’s a surprisingly pleasant jolt to the stomach to realise that she’s wrong. He does have friends, does have a pack, people he can call. The pack is… looser than it was, more spread out, but that’s no bad thing. He can still feel them all there. They’re just exercising their newfound freedom as college students.

Isaac is still in his first year of college, because he took a year out to go backpacking across France with Allison. He returned only a month ago, suntanned and freckled, with his hair too long and a shadow of golden stubble across his chin, looking taller and broader than Derek remembered. There’s a confidence about him that Derek, all things considered, is rather proud of.

Isaac suggests that they go out for dinner, so Derek makes sure to tell Cora – she rolls her eyes – and heads out. When he’d first turned his motley band of teenagers – and fuck, does that seem like a long time ago now – Derek thought that Boyd, quiet and muscular and therefore so much like himself, would be the one he’d get along with best. Instead he and Isaac have fallen into a natural, brotherly relationship that reminds him with a pang of a time when he’d had more family. They text intermittently, and Isaac still asks him for help with college assignments just like he did at high school.

The diner is crowded with people when Derek arrives, breathing in the scent of sweat and salted fries. His gaze flickers between the little groups; the gaggle of burly men, clearly just finished at the construction site down the road, still in their high-viz jackets. A pair of willowy young women sitting on bar stools and sharing a plate of garlic bread and a bottle of red wine. Some teenagers from the high school, throwing fries at each other and loudly debating a recent math test. And Isaac, sat in the booth nearest the door with a sunny smile on his face at the sight of Derek.

“Hey,” Derek says, sliding into the booth. Isaac grins at him. He looks brown and relaxed.

“Hey,” he says. “I ordered cheeseburgers.” He hesitates, just a little, enough for Derek to remember that old habits die hard. “Is that cool?”

Derek makes his face smile, which sounds ridiculous when he thinks about it, but he’s not used to doing it on purpose. “Sure,” he says. “Cheeseburgers sound great.”

They catch up, which is surprisingly relaxing, and an hour in Derek realises that he’s enjoying himself in a low-key, gentle kind of way which is pleasantly unfamiliar. Isaac tells him amusing stories about college, which is nice since Derek never attended, and Derek tells him about Cora and the moving on project.

“That sounds like a good idea,” Isaac says, and smiles. “Is this part of it? Hanging out?”

Derek shrugs. “There are worse things,” he allows, and Isaac laughs. Then he stiffens, his eyes flickering away from Derek.

“Those women are talking about you,” he says in a low voice, raising his eyebrows towards the pair of women at the bar. Derek frowns; he’s so used now to tuning out the chatter around him that he hasn’t noticed. Isaac looks amused, so it can’t be anything bad.

He lets himself listen, a wash of talk and laughter suddenly flooding over his senses as he stops blocking it all out. A few booths over, a middle-aged woman is discussing, jubilantly, her recent promotion with a young man crunching garlic bread far too loudly. In the kitchen the chefs are bickering, although one of them is outside on her phone. The men from the construction site are planning a stag party for one of their friends. And the women with the wine… are talking about Derek.

“You could, like, send a drink over?” the blonde one suggests, sipping her drink.

The darker girl scoffs. “No one does that in real life,” she says. Her eyes – dark, bright – flicker towards Derek. “Shit, I think he’s looking at us!”

“They fancy you,” Isaac observes needlessly. Derek rolls his eyes heavily.

“Hi,” says a voice by his elbow. He blinks; he didn’t notice the dark-haired woman leaving the bar, but here she is, standing next to their booth. She’s attractive is a loose, feline kind of way; her nose is small, pert, sharp, and she has a narrow chin with a contrastingly wide mouth. Her hair falls in a neat cropped cut to her shoulders.

“Um,” Derek says awkwardly. He can feel himself blushing. “Hi.”

The young woman gives him a wide smile, which has the effect of making her face light up. Derek blinks. She says: “I’m Christie.”

“Derek,” he replies stupidly.

Christie bites her lower lip. He notices, suddenly, that she has a small scrap of paper in her hand; she’s turning it around between her fingers slightly anxiously. Across the table, Isaac is barely containing his mirth. Derek is going to _kill_ him.

“This is my number,” Christie says at last, raising the piece of paper. She smiles again. “Call me, maybe?”

“Oh my _God_ ,” says a loud voice behind her, and Derek’s heart just stops in his chest for a moment, because seriously, could this get any more embarrassing without _Stiles_ of all people showing up? He marches over, or at least tries to, because that kid can’t walk in a straight line without tripping over his own feet, and then he’s standing at Derek and Isaac’s table.

He looks taller than Derek remembers, his hair just slightly too long to be any kind of deliberate style, and his eyes are dancing. He gives Isaac a little nod – at least, Derek thinks furiously, he didn’t actually say _s’up_ – and then he focuses all his attention back on Derek. “Dude,” he says, sounding deeply amused, “she just Carly Rae Jepsen’d you. You _have_ to go out with her.”

Christie, who had been looking both confused and slightly upset, emits a high-pitched giggle. Derek just stares at Stiles. “What?”

Stiles gestures expansively. His fingers, Derek notices idly, are long and slender, and there’s a freckle or a mole on the side of his ring finger of his left hand. “Carly Rae Jepsen!” he exclaims, like that should make everything clear.

Isaac suddenly looks highly tickled. “Oh my God, she did!” he says.

“I don’t—” Derek begins, but then Stiles breaks out into discordant song, and he shuts his mouth abruptly. He’s grinning as though he doesn’t care whatsoever about the fact that half the diner has stopped talking to stare at him, and Derek wonders when Stiles stopped caring about being cool or popular and just focused on being interesting. And then he wonders where that thought came from.

“ _Hey, I just met you_ ,” Stiles warbles. “Come on, dude, even you must know this song!” He pauses; when Derek doesn’t stop staring at him, he goes on: “ _And this is crazy_ … no?”

“ _But here’s my number_ ,” Isaac sings unexpectedly. Derek turns to look wide-eyed at him too; Christie is laughing helplessly at the side of the booth. “ _So call me maybe_.”

“ _And all the other boys try to chase me_ ,” Stiles continues, although this time he’s joined by Christie’s blonde friend from the bar, as well as a few other inebriated regulars. “ _But here’s my number_ …”

“ _SO CALL ME MAYBE!_ ” the entire diner sings out lustily.

There’s a pregnant pause. Christie, looking somewhat embarrassed, although still smiling prettily, shrugs and holds out the piece of paper again. Derek finds his eyes flickering over to Stiles, who gives him a hefty nod.

He thinks of Cora, telling him to go on a date. She’d never believe this in a million years.

He takes the scrap of paper.

There’s a storm of cheering and wolf-whistling – God, what a terrible pun – across the diner. Christie blushes, and Stiles lets out a whoop. Derek can feel his cheeks heating up; he looks up furiously at Stiles, and then back at Christie.

“Um,” he says awkwardly. “Thanks.”

She smiles again. “No problem,” she says shyly. Her friend is by her elbow. “I guess… I’ll hear from you?”

“Yeah,” Derek says. He swallows. “Sure.”

Christie gives him one last lingering smile, and then she and her friend walk out of the diner, scattered applause following them as they go. Stiles, of course, takes advantage of her absence to plop himself heavily beside Derek in the booth.

“That was awesome,” he says contentedly. Derek shoves him, irritated. Stiles just laughs. “Your face, dude.”

“It’s not funny,” Derek says tightly.

Stiles and Isaac both snort. “Yeah, it is,” Stiles assures him.

“What are you doing here?” Isaac asks him. “I thought you were back at college.”

Stiles shakes his head, reaching across the table to help himself to a handful of Derek’s fries. “Starts next week,” he says. His shirt is just a little too short for his arms, as though he’s grown too quickly in a short space of time. “Everyone else went back early to settle in, or whatever.” He shrugs, the movement quick and loose. “Didn’t see the point.”

Derek frowns. “Who are you here with?”

“Nobody,” Stiles says easily. “I was having dinner with my dad, but he had to go. Armed robbery, or something.” He picks up another fry, his fingers shiny with grease and gleaming with grains of salt. Derek finds himself watching Stiles’ mouth as he speaks.

Isaac says: “Aren’t you into that? Crime?”

“Nah,” Stiles says. “Didn’t sound supernatural, so.”

“But you did pre-FBI, right?” Isaac presses. Derek finds himself listening with more care than he really wants to; he hadn’t known that. “At George Washington?”

At first, Derek thinks he’s imagining the imperceptible stiffening of Stiles’ shoulders, the line of tension running down his long neck. His voice, when he answers, is carefully light. “Yeah, that’s right.”

“What are you majoring in now?” Derek finds himself asking. He’s surprised to realise that he genuinely wants to know.

Stiles seems to relax at the question. “Psychology,” he says. He scratches his chin with blunt nails. “I kind of…”

Derek leans forward. “What?” he asks.

“I don’t know,” Stiles says, shrugging diffidently. “I figured maybe getting into people’s heads… If you can, like, figure out why they’re doing what they’re doing…”

“Is that what you want to do?” Derek asks. He pauses, letting the right words come to him. “Criminal psychology?”

Stiles shrugs again. He looks almost embarrassed, which for the guy that fifteen minutes ago was lustily singing pop songs to the entire diner seems kind of weird. “Yeah,” he says quietly.

Isaac crunches a gherkin loudly across the table, breaking the oddly charged moment abruptly. Derek leans back again, letting his head rest against the cushioned seating. He’s trying to work out why such an innocuous conversation – lasting so little time, at that – has left him feeling so strangely breathless, as though it were important in some way. And then he decides that it doesn’t matter enough for him even to think about it, because come on. This is Stiles. He _hates_ Stiles.

“I hate you,” he mutters, and Stiles turns sharply to look at him. He grins unexpectedly.

“Come on, she loved it,” he says, and it takes Derek a second to realise that he’s talking about Christie. “She was cute!”

“Right,” he mumbles, because of course Stiles thinks he’s talking about the whole singing thing. He’s not going to explain that actually he’s saying it because there’s something about Stiles’ presence here, larger than life, more relaxed than Derek has ever seen him, that is unsettling him. How could he possibly explain that?

“Are you going to call her?” Isaac asks curiously. It takes Derek a moment to remember who he’s talking about.

He shrugs. “I don’t know.”

“You should,” Stiles pronounces. “She was cute and into you.”

“A combination that’s always worked out so well for me in the past,” Derek says flatly before he quite realises it’s out of his mouth. Stiles snorts, and after a moment – obviously checking whether or not it’s alright – Isaac joins in.

“Dude, not everyone is out to get you,” Stiles says easily. He grins, wickedly, and Derek finds himself swallowing reflexively. “Well, not in a bad way, anyway.”

“Okay,” Derek says, feeling strangely disappointed. “I’ll call her.”

Stiles smiles, the movement smooth and easy-going, making his face crease prettily. “Do it now,” he orders.

Derek’s eyes widen. “Now? She’s only just left!”

“She’ll like it,” Isaac says, and Stiles nods in agreement. Derek looks out of the window, as though he might somehow see salvation coming. There’s nothing, not Cora, not the Sheriff – just the rapidly darkening street, the gleam of the cars parked outside the diner.

“I don’t have to call her if I don’t want to,” he says mulishly to his own reflection, well aware of how childish he sounds. And he doesn’t; he’s an adult. He doesn’t have to give into teenage peer pressure just because he doesn’t have any other friends.

He can see, in the glint of the reflections in the glass, that the smile has dropped from Stiles’ face. Derek turns back to look at him; Stiles looks almost _concerned_ , which is more than Derek can bear. “Of course you don’t,” he says uncertainly. He glances at Isaac, which makes Derek unexpectedly irritated. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.”

Of course, that only makes Derek want to call the stupid number more. He hates the gentleness in Stiles’ eyes. “I…” He hesitates. “I’m not good at this,” he says at last, and the warmth that spreads across his chest at the confession tells him that honesty was indeed the way to go.

Stiles lays an unthinking hand on Derek’s arm. It’s warm and heavy. “Look at it like this,” he says. “This is… the test drive, okay? You call her up, that’s awesome. You speak to her and you don’t want to meet her, no problem. You _do_ meet her, but can’t stand her? No worries, you never have to see her again. What’s the worst that could happen?”

It’s the wrong question to ask. Derek feels his body tensing. “She could turn out to be a darach intent on sacrificing half the neighbourhood,” he snaps. _She could burn down my house with everyone I love inside it_ , he adds silently, but he can’t say that because Isaac and Stiles don’t know he was with Kate that way.

“True,” Stiles acknowledges, although he doesn’t sound too worried about it. “But what are you going to do, Der? Never date anyone again?”

That actually sounds like a fairly appealing option. “You can’t just dismiss the risk,” he says obstinately.

Stiles shrugs. “Well, maybe don’t sleep with her on the first date,” he says mildly. The _this time_ is only slightly implied. “Get to know her. If you want to. If you like her.”

Derek turns appealing eyes on Isaac. “What if she wants to?” he says, and then practically bites his own tongue off in his effort to stop talking.

Isaac laughs, although it’s not unkind. He leans back in the booth, scratching his neck. “Um… say no?” he says, as though it’s obvious.

Stiles is watching Derek far too closely. “You can tell her you want to go slow. You know that’s okay, right?”

“Right,” Derek mumbles. He looks down at the scrap of paper in his hand. Truthfully, he’s not completely sure why he’s stalling; dating isn’t something he’s particularly used to, but it’s also not something he fears. Or at least, he never used to fear it, and in the name of moving on, there’s no reason not to give Christie a chance. For all he knows, she’s the love of his life, and the whole Carly Rae Jepsen thing will be a cute story they tell their kids.

Derek snorts at the thought.

“Hey, he’s smiling!” Stiles says triumphantly. “Are you going to do it?”

“Yes,” Derek says firmly, before he can second-guess himself, and he drags his cell out of his pocket. It’s old, nowhere near up-to-date enough, and definitely not used enough.

Stiles lets out a cheer, and then falls silent, allowing Derek to dial the number Christie left for him. His hands are shaking, just a little, which is ridiculous, but Isaac and Stiles are kind enough not to comment on it.

He takes a deep breath, trying to summon the Derek that knows how to be charming and friendly. The trouble is, usually he only brings that Derek out when he’s trying to distract someone in the name of a more nefarious cause than this one.

“Hello?” Christie answers the phone far too quickly for Derek’s liking. His eyes flicker over to Stiles, who gives him an encouraging series of nods.

“Hi,” Derek says, managing to keep his voice steady. “It’s Derek.” He pauses, hoping she won’t ask him _which_ Derek, as he’s pretty sure actually having to reference the singing incident will be beyond him.

Fortunately, she doesn’t. “Oh, Derek!” she says, sounding both pleased and a little flustered. Stiles, head bent close to listen, gives him a thumbs-up. Apparently, this is good.

“I know we just…” Derek begins, and then trails off, unsure where that sentence should go. “We didn’t really have a chance to actually talk, before,” he says at last.

Christie laughs. “No, that was kind of taken away from us,” she agrees. She waits.

“I was wondering…” Derek sighs. “Look, I’m terrible at this,” he confesses frankly. “My friends are hovering over me looking like Christmas came early and quite honestly I’d rather talk to you when they’re not listening in. Would you like to go for coffee?”

“I’d love to,” Christie says. She sounds amused. “It would be nice to get to know you without an audience… yes, Lori, I’m talking about you!” There’s a muffled whisper down the line, and Derek lets himself smile. Beside him, Stiles is doing a mini victory dance in his seat.

“How’s Saturday?” he asks.

“Saturday would be great,” she replies. “Ten? Eleven?”

“Ten,” he says firmly. “I’ll see you then.”

He hangs up the phone, and determinedly doesn’t look at Stiles.

*

“A date,” Cora says flatly at 9:37am on Saturday morning. Derek has deliberately waited until the last minute to tell her about it, simply because he has no idea how she’ll react. “You’re going on a date?”

“Yeah,” Derek says, trying to act like it’s no big deal. “So?”

Cora folds her arms. She’s standing in the doorway of the kitchen, wearing combat boots, tight black jeans with rips at the knees and a black tank top. “Since when do you go on dates?” she asks sceptically.

“I go on dates,” Derek says untruthfully. “I can go on dates,” he amends.

There’s a tiny, knowing smile in the corner of Cora’s mouth. “Is it Stiles?”

Derek, looking for his car keys, doesn’t understand her at first. “Is what Stiles?” he asks distractedly. The keys aren’t on the hook by the door, which is sure sign that Cora has been out driving. She never hangs them up properly afterwards.

“The _date_ ,” Cora says, rolling her eyes. “Is the date with Stiles?”

Derek actually stops what he’s doing. “What?”

The smile falters on his sister’s face, and she unfolds her arms again. “Guess not,” she says, frowning. “I just figured – you guys get on well…”

“I’m not going out with _Stiles_ ,” Derek says scathingly. “Don’t be ridiculous, Cora.”

She holds up her hands in mock defence. “Okay, okay, jeez,” she says. The sneaky, unpleasant smile is back. “Hey, he’s cute enough.”

Keys finally located in the fruit bowl – because _of course_ they are – Derek swings his customary leather jacket over his arm. “Whatever, Cora,” he mutters, because he knows that she’s trying to tease him somehow and he’s not going to give her the satisfaction. “See you later.”

She doesn’t leave it at that, because it’s Cora; instead, she follows him out the kitchen door and down the drive. “I’m just saying, he’s an attractive kid,” she says, which is ridiculous; she and Stiles are the same age. “You could do worse.”

“Cora,” Derek says. “Shut up.”

“Touchy, touchy,” she says, face maddeningly amused.

Derek sighs. “Can’t you just wish me luck on _this_ date?” he asks.

She rolls her eyes at him. “Good luck, Derek,” she says as he gets into the Camaro. “Use a condom.”

Derek gives her the finger as he rumbles down the drive.

He’s feeling… uncharacteristically confident, even with Cora’s less-than-encouraging send-off. Christie sent him a single text yesterday, just to confirm their date, and oddly the lack of contact is reassuring. It shows him that she’s not over-eager, which to his mind can only be a plus. Stiles, on the other hand – and now, given Cora’s ridiculous insinuations, Derek finds himself grinding his teeth just at the name – has texted at least seventeen times, wishing him luck, giving him advice that he absolutely will not be following, and generally getting under Derek’s skin. But as irritating as that feels… somehow that has helped to calm his nerves as well.

If Stiles thinks it’s normal – thinks it’s alright – then perhaps it actually is. Stiles has remarkably well-honed instincts when it comes to self-preservation.

The day is cloudy, although the sun peeps through at odd intervals and lights up the thin trees at the edge of the Hale land. Derek watches the road whisk past underneath the wheels of the car and idly wishes he could be running on four paws.

He parks up outside the coffee shop, the little bell on the door jangling noisily as he walks inside. Christie is already waiting for him, although he’s not late, and she half-rises from a table by the window with a smile and an awkward wave.

Derek strides over. His heart is thudding in his chest. “Hi,” he says, more brusquely than he means to.

Christie doesn’t seem to mind. “Hello,” she says shyly. She hesitates. “I haven’t ordered yet.”

It’s a clear signal, and Derek clutches it like a lifeline. “Can I buy you a coffee?”

He does buy her coffee; a creamy cappuccino, with chocolate sprinkles on top and a small hard biscuit on the saucer. He gets a hot chocolate for himself; he’s never been able to bring himself to enjoy coffee. Christie waits at the table while he pays, and impulsively he adds a couple of muffins to his order. He’s very, very nervous.

“Thank you,” Christie says politely as he sets her drink in front of her. She has a pretty smile, and she flashes it at him now. “It’s nice to see you again.”

“Yes,” Derek says awkwardly. “That was… at the diner…”

She laughs. “I know,” she agrees. There’s a silence, which Derek can’t seem to find a way to fill. She says: “So… what do you do?”

He nearly says _I’m an Alpha_ , just because it would be something to talk about, but fortunately his own good sense intervenes before he can. “I work in construction,” he says, which is technically true; he rebuilt most of his house himself, and every now and again he puts a few hours in with a local contractor. “Um… what about you?”

“I’m a bartender at The Vortex,” she tells him, naming a local nightclub. “I actually only just moved to Beacon Hills.”

That’s good; that’s more information that he can use to build a conversation. “Where did you move from?”

“Toronto,” she says, flashing that smile again. “I’m Canadian.”

It’s not terrible. Derek sits and sips at his hot chocolate, listening to Christie speaking and occasionally managing to deliver input of his own. He breaks of pieces of his muffin, praying that it doesn’t crumble everywhere and internally wondering why on Earth he ordered such a messy dessert. Christie is kind, and doesn’t point out how awful he is at making conversation. She doesn’t seem to mind it too much, and when he does talk, she makes a point of listening intently.

He learns that Lori, the blonde woman she had been with in the diner, is her older sister, and that Christie moved here to be closer to her after their father died in Canada. Lori is married to someone called Jesse, and together they run the local bookshop. He learns that Christie enjoys painting in her spare time, and would love to be a professional artist; in Toronto, she once had some of her work exhibited at a local gallery. He learns that she’s afraid of heights but loves swimming, and has spent a great deal of time down at the beach since arriving in Beacon Hills. He learns that she hasn’t yet made many friends in town.

“So this is really nice,” she explains. “Even if – I mean, even if it’s just as friends.” She looks up at him, a blush staining her cheeks. “Is this—?”

“Um,” Derek says uncomfortably, because the truth is he has no idea. He hasn’t hated it – Christie is friendly, fairly funny, and comfortable to spend time with. Honestly, it’s been so long since he’s done this that he can’t really tell if he’s attracted to her or not. He could be, maybe, given time.

“It’s okay if—” Christie begins hastily, looking embarrassed, and then he just feels guilty.

“I don’t know,” he says bluntly. “I – I take a while. To get to know people. I’m…” _Damaged_ , is the word that springs to mind. “I’ve enjoyed talking to you,” he says instead, lamely.

Christie grins at him. “So have I,” she says. “Look, Derek – we don’t have to make a thing out of it. We can just see how we go. If you want.”

He leans forward. “And you – you’d be alright with that? I—” He flushes, suddenly embarrassed by himself. “I don’t want to lead you on,” he mumbles.

“I’ve had a nice time,” Christie says, her voice taking on a slightly more authoritative tone. “I’d like to spend some more time with you, get to know you better.” She pauses, smiling. “If it leads somewhere… that would be lovely. If it doesn’t – well, then, we’ll be friends.”

Derek actually finds himself smiling. “I like that,” he says quietly.

She shrugs. “I like to keep these things relaxed,” she says airily. She grins unexpectedly at him. “So. No pressure. Deal?”

“Deal,” Derek agrees. He feels considerably lighter just through having the conversation; the fact that she’s willing to take things slowly, to investigate how they might feel about each other rather than rushing blindly in, is an enormous benefit to his mind. Part of what he’s been so afraid of – and he can admit this now, now that they’ve talked about it – is feeling trapped in something that he didn’t want. He knows he’s weird, he knows it takes him longer than most people to make up his mind about this kind of thing, but still – it’s such a relief to know that they’re on the same page.

He’d turned his phone on silent before the date; it’s no surprise that afterwards, when he’s kissed Christie on the cheek and promised to be in touch, he turns it back on again to see around seven or eight text messages from Cora, Stiles and Isaac.

He ignores the ones from Cora. Isaac he sends a quick message to reassure him that he’s fine and hasn’t been kidnapped by anything supernatural, and Stiles—

Stiles has sent four messages, and Derek has no idea how to begin to explain how the date went over text. He calls him.

Stiles picks up after the second ring. “Derek? How did it go?”

“Well,” Derek says. “I think.”

Stiles laughs. “If you think it went well it must have been awesome.”

“She said we could… take it as it comes,” Derek says. He feels awkward, talking to Stiles about this, but he also feels like he might explode if he doesn’t talk to _someone_ , and Stiles is – Stiles is there, and kind, and ready to listen. And he’s trying to move on. To be happy, like other people. Other people talk to their friends about their dates. Which… “Are we friends, Stiles?”

“Um,” Stiles says, sounding a little taken aback. Derek closes his eyes, feeling his cheeks heat up. Why the fuck did he say it like that? “Yes?” Stiles says uncertainly, like he’s not sure what the right answer is. Then, in a more normal voice: “Dude, of course we’re friends.”

“Okay,” Derek says, relieved. There’s a pause.

“So,” Stiles says eventually. “Do not think you’re getting away with that, dude. Give me more. What does that mean, take it as it comes? Do you like her? Are you going to see her again?”

There’s an unaccountable sensation of warmth spreading across Derek’s chest. “One question at a time, Stiles,” he grumbles, but he’s smiling. It doesn’t matter. Stiles can’t see him.

“You’re happy!” Stiles crows, which, damn. He forgot Stiles is fucking psychic. “Come on, dude. What’s she like?”

Derek bites his lip – hard – to stop the smile in its tracks. “She’s nice,” he says.

“Weak,” Stiles says dismissively. “What did you mean, take it as it comes? Like, take it slow?”

Derek starts walking across the parking lot to the Camaro. The sun is beginning to come out, gleaming from between the clouds and illuminating the cars and the windswept leaves on the ground. “She said we didn’t have to rush anything,” he says, his voice betraying how relieving that thought is. “If it works out, it works out, and if not, we’ll be friends.”

“I like her,” Stiles says decisively. “Sounds like she’s got you right on the money, dude.”

“Don’t call me dude,” Derek says reflexively.

Stiles chuckles, and there’s a scratchy sound as though he’s tucking the phone underneath his chin. Derek can picture him, maybe lying on his bed, the sunlight coming in through his bedroom window and warming his mole-scattered face. He’ll be smiling, his face creased in amusement and his eyes dancing. He shakes the thought away; he’s not quite sure what it’s doing there.

“Do you like her?” Stiles asks.

Derek shrugs uncomfortably, and then remembers Stiles can’t see him. “I don’t… I’m not sure,” he says. “Maybe?”

There’s a pause, and then Stiles says thoughtfully: “You take your time with that stuff, don’t you?” It’s not really a question – he sounds too certain for that – but he waits for Derek to answer anyway.

“Yes,” Derek says. “I like – I’d like to be friends, first. I want to be sure.”

Stiles is surprisingly sympathetic when he says: “I get that, dude.”

“ _Don’t_ —” Derek begins, but Stiles cuts him off.

“Derek,” he says, reasonable but firm. “Face it. I’m going to call you dude from now until the end of eternity. You can fight it, or accept it. Either way – you’re stuck with it.”

Maybe it’s the sunlight, getting in Derek’s eyes and confusing his mind. Maybe it’s just Stiles, with his ridiculous silver tongue. But somehow, that doesn’t sound so bad.

*

Cora, Isaac and Stiles are all extremely different kinds of people, but if there’s one thing they agree on, it’s that Derek _sucks_ at dating. This becomes clear over the next couple of days, when all three of them harass him both in person and over text to find out when he’s planning on seeing Christie again.

“Um,” he says to Cora’s raised eyebrows. “I don’t know?”

She rolls her eyes at him. “Have you even texted her since your date?”

Derek’s only response is a guilty shrug.

“You’ve dated before, right?” Stiles says the following weekend. Somehow, he’s hanging out at the Hale house, sprawled out on the couch underneath the living room window with the weak October sunlight gleaming on his skin and his eyes bright and mischievous. Derek doesn’t even remember inviting him, doesn’t quite recall how he ended up here when he went back to college four days ago. He doesn’t really care.

“Yes,” he says awkwardly. “I’ve dated.”

Stiles, clearly sceptical, turns to look pointedly at Cora, who giggles. She’s wearing her customary black skinny jeans and black tank top, although today her hair is in two French braids that coil over her shoulders. She shrugs at Stiles. “I don’t know,” she says. “I was only eleven last time. I’ve never seen him date anyone apart from Paige.”

“Paige,” Stiles says musingly. His eyes flick over to Derek. “Who else have you dated that’s _normal_?”

“Braeden,” Derek says mulishly. Stiles rolls his eyes, and Cora snorts.

“Having sex for two months without actually talking to someone is not dating,” Cora says sternly.

Derek folds his arms and says nothing.

“Oh my _God_ ,” Stiles says dramatically, his plaid shirt flapping open. “You’ve never done this before, have you?”

“Shut up,” Derek mutters.

“This is awesome,” Stiles says gleefully, actually rubbing his hands together. “This is going to be super fun—”

“Stop making fun of me,” Derek glowers. Something is hardening inside his chest, something heavy and painful. He knows it’s weird, but he’s also fairly sure that it’s not really his fault; he was so traumatised after Paige died that he didn’t look at _anyone_ that way until Kate came along, and then after that he was certain he could never trust another person again. He’d had sex in the intervening years, but he’d never, ever dated anyone. He’d never wanted to. The fact that he’s doing it now – letting someone in, letting himself _trust_ someone – that’s huge, for him. And it kind of hurts that Stiles doesn’t see that.

“Woah, hey, I’m not,” Stiles says, even though he blatantly was. He casts an anxious glance at Cora, who kind of glares back at him. “Der. Derek. I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to, like, make you feel stupid.” Derek doesn’t answer, because he’s not quite sure what to say; Stiles’ teeth plunge into his lower lip. “I’m sorry,” he says again. “I just meant… I guess I just think it’s really great that you’re doing this, you know? And I took it too far. I’m an idiot.” He grins lopsidedly. “Sorry.”

Derek fidgets. “It’s fine,” he says. Stiles looks relieved.

“Awesome,” he says. “So, back to Christie. You liked her, right?”

For some reason, this makes Derek feel oddly uncomfortable. “Um. Yes. I guess?”

“Okay,” Stiles says encouragingly, his hands waving in the air. “So, you kind of have to text her. If you want to see her again.”

Derek’s collar is feeling overly warm. “Saying what?”

“Tell her you had a good time the other day,” Cora suggests.

“Ask her out again,” Stiles says.

There’s a pregnant pause, during which Derek tries to figure out if he actually _wants_ to ask Christie out again. He likes her, that much is true – she’s warm, funny, friendly, and seems to be genuinely interested in him as a person, which is rare – but he’s not totally sure he wants to date her.

Stiles seems to sense his distress. “You could make it a group thing,” he offers. “Me and Cora could come. And Isaac. We could go bowling.”

“A group thing,” Derek repeats, while Cora makes a sniffy noise that shows exactly what she thinks of bowling. “Wouldn’t that… Isn’t that weird? For a second date?”

Stiles shrugs. “You said you were going to take it as it comes,” he says easily. “What’s the harm in asking?”

So Derek asks. Actually, _Stiles_ asks, because it turns out that Derek doesn’t really know how to construct a text message – even Cora agrees – but either way, the text is sent. And twenty tense minutes later, Christie replies.

It turns out she doesn’t have a problem with their second date being a group thing. In fact, when Derek picks her up from the flat above the drycleaners in town where she lives, she actually compliments his choice with a cheery smile. She’s looking extremely pretty in a red flowered dress and denim jacket.

“I can’t even remember the last time I went bowling,” she says, getting into the car. “Thanks for inviting me.”

Derek closes her door, using the brief time walking around the front of the car to get in himself to take a few breaths. For some reason, he’s a lot more nervous for this date than he was for the first. The evening is clear and cool, the moon just beginning to peep over the tops of the trees and hills surrounding town. Everything is quiet, so his own heartbeat sounds stupidly loud.

He gets into the Camaro. “Thanks for saying yes,” he says. Christie flashes her wide smile at him, and Derek feels his stomach unclench just a little.

“So who’s coming?” she asks brightly. “It’ll be nice to meet some new people around here.”

“My friend Isaac,” Derek says, and then stops, because that clearly doesn’t do justice to the relationship he and Isaac have. “He’s kind of… my brother. My little brother. Except not.” Good God, he sounds like Stiles. “He lived with me for a while after his dad died.”

Christie smiles at him. She smells relaxed. “That’s really sweet,” she says.

“He’s at college now,” Derek says. “He was at the diner when… That day.”

“The cute one with the dimples and the moles?” she asks.

Derek shakes his head. “No, that’s Stiles,” he says. His stomach does a funny flip at the name. “He’s my…” _Pack_ , is what he wants to say, because _friend_ is wrong and so is _brother_ , but he doesn’t. “I’ve known him for years,” he amends.

Christie is nodding. “Ah, so the other cute one, with the curls,” she says knowingly. She gives Derek a mischievous sideways glance. “You have a lot of attractive friends, Derek.”

Derek’s mouth feels dry, but he smiles anyway. “I guess,” he says.

“Okay, so Isaac and… did you say Stiles?” Christie says, frowning.

“It’s a nickname,” Derek tells her. “If you heard his real name, you’d understand.” That’s what Stiles always says, and now that Derek actually _knows_ his real name, he totally gets it. His stomach does the odd twisty thing again.

Christie laughs. “What do you mean, what’s his real name?”

“I’ve only heard it once, I can’t pronounce it—” A lie, but only because he looked it up “—and even if I could I’ve been sworn to secrecy,” he says seriously. Christie laughs again.

“Okay, so Stiles,” she says. Derek isn’t sure he likes the sound of her saying his name. “Any more oestrogen at this party, or is it just me?”

“My sister,” he says. “Cora.” He sighs. “She insisted.”

“That’s cool,” Christie says. “You live with your sister, right? What’s she like?”

Derek scratches his chin. It’s not an easy question. “She’s… protective,” he says. He stops, thinking about it, because that may be what Cora is like with him, but it’s not what she’s like as a person. “She’s honest,” he says at last. “She’s passionate, and sarcastic, and really smart. She’s incredible,” he finishes, smiling at Christie, “but don’t tell her I said so.”

They pull up outside the bowling place. Stiles is waiting outside, hands in his pockets and a crinkled, impatient sort of expression on his face that makes Derek laugh. Christie shoots him a quick confused glance, but he can’t explain it. It’s just Stiles, being Stiles, rocking his weight from one leg to the other because he doesn’t know how to keep still.

“Are we late?” he asks Stiles as they get out of the car. Stiles sticks out his tongue.

“Shut up,” he says. “Isaac and Cora are inside getting a lane.” He turns to Christie. “Hey!”

“Hi!” Christie says, sounding excited. “You must be Stiles.”

That earns Derek an odd look from Stiles. “Um… yeah,” he says. “Derek told you about me?”

“He told me about all his friends,” Christie says. It’s almost certainly Derek’s imagination, but he could swear Stiles’ face falls just a little at that. “It’s good to properly meet you!”

“Hah, yeah, Carly Rae,” Stiles says, good humour clearly returning. “That was awesome, right?”

Christie grins, her cheeks flushing prettily. “I still can’t believe you don’t know that song,” she says, turning to Derek.

“Are you kidding? Derek doesn’t know anything about pop culture. It’s one of his many and varied charms,” Stiles says. Christie giggles. “You know I had to introduce him to _Die Hard_? Like, _last year_?”

Almost unconsciously, they’ve started walking inside, the neon lights of the bowling place flashing above them. Christie walks with Stiles, with Derek half a step behind, and he listens fondly to Stiles ribbing him about not knowing any music past the 80s and still thinking that _Friends_ was a current sitcom. Christie laughs in all the right places, her hair shining underneath the too-bright lightbulbs, but Derek is watching Stiles.

Stiles is gesturing expansively with his hands, the tendons standing up and his whole body moving along with his facial expressions. He has moles by his mouth, little laughter lines that light up his entire face, and his eyes are sparkling. He’s talking about Derek – because he _knows_ Derek. He knows that Derek listens to classical music in the shower – and just how _does_ he know that? He knows that Derek doesn’t know who that Kardashians are and he’s never seen _Jersey Shore_ but he secretly – or not-so-secretly, because Christie is laughing about it right now – adores _Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt_. Even now, Stiles casts a mischievous, glowing look back at Derek, and Derek—

Derek stops dead.

“Der?” Stiles says, frowning. “You okay?”

“What?” Derek says. He gives himself a little shake. “Yeah. Sorry. I’m fine.”

But he’s not fine. Because he likes Stiles, and how ridiculous is that? He’s here with Christie, who is pretty and kind and interesting and willing to take it slow, and all he’s doing is watching Stiles talk, thinking about Stiles, liking Stiles—

He likes Stiles. He’s liked Stiles for – well, for longer than just right now. He’s not starting to like him for the first time. It feels like he’s remembering something he’s known for years.

He likes Stiles.

Isaac and Cora already have their bowling shoes on, standing by the reception desk with big, wicked-looking grins on their faces; Derek introduces them to Christie with perhaps a little less grace than he should. Cora, in particular, cackles evilly as she shakes Christie’s hand.

“Well, well,” she says. “A real live girl. I wouldn’t have believed it if Isaac and Stiles hadn’t been there.”

“Cora,” Derek sighs, but Christie laughs, obviously taking it in her stride.

“Derek told me you were forthright,” she says, which isn’t exactly what Derek had said, but it’s not as though she’s wrong. “It’s great to meet you.”

Cora’s eyes narrow, just a little, and she looks at Derek. She looks oddly pensive, as though she’s considering Christie’s answer, which is weird, and Derek finds himself scanning his little sister to try and figure out what’s going on in her head. She doesn’t say anything, though, and after a minute Isaac points them towards the desk to get their shoes.

“Are we getting any food?” Isaac asks as they wander across to their lane, because Isaac is always hungry. Stiles laughs and ruffles Isaac’s blonde curls, and Derek feels an unexpected stab of jealousy deep in his gut. Stiles has never touched him that way.

“There’s a McDonald’s over there,” Cora suggests, gesturing towards the café section of the bowling complex. “Stiles? Fancy grabbing some Big Macs?”

Stiles, surprisingly, looks unenthused. “Nope,” he says emphatically. “No thank you.” He picks up a bowling ball, his long fingers slotting into the holes, and Derek is oddly distracted.

Cora frowns, sitting down to re-lace one of her shoes. “You’re seriously turning down curly fries?” she says, which now that Derek thinks about it, _is_ odd. Stiles loves curly fries. Cora looks at Christie. “Stiles is obsessed with curly fries.”

Christie laughs. “They are the best,” she agrees. She’s sitting in one of the hard plastic chairs, swinging her legs; her hands are holding the edge of the seat. Suddenly, Derek wonders if he’s supposed to be holding it. He looks down at his own hands, large and dark. He doesn’t _want_ to hold her hand.

“The McDonald’s here has a big cut-out of the clown,” Stiles says. There’s the faintest trace of something – maybe embarrassment, or maybe even fear – in his voice. “I don’t do clowns.”

“You don’t do clowns,” Cora repeats flatly, while Isaac snorts with laughter. He’s over by the machine inputting their names for the game. “You fight insane monsters every day—” She stops abruptly, and then covers her gaffe by adding smoothly: “—in video games, but you don’t do clowns?”

“God, you sound so much like Derek when you’re being sarcastic,” Stiles sighs, swinging the bowling ball from one hand to the other. “No, Cor, I don’t do clowns. I had a bad experience as a kid, and then there’s those, like, _idiots_ who scare people by the side of the road, and just _no_ , okay? Everyone has stuff they’re scared of.”

Cora snorts. “Yeah, but _clowns_ —”

“Cora, leave it,” Derek interrupts. “Everyone has phobias. Even you.”

“I’m scared of spiders and balloon animals,” Christie offers, and everyone laughs, the slight tension broken.

Isaac finishes typing in Derek’s name, the last one, and comes to sit next to Cora. Stiles and Derek are the only ones left standing up, and Derek finds himself smiling reassuringly at Stiles. Stiles grins back, which is doing something odd and not entirely pleasant to Derek’s heart.

“I’m afraid of small spaces,” Isaac says casually, like it’s not a big deal when they all know it is. Stiles punches him fondly in the shoulder. “You’re up first, Cora.”

Cora stands, going over to the rack to choose a ball. “I’m not afraid of anything,” she says, winking at Stiles. She picks out one of the heaviest balls, and Derek rolls his eyes. “Except losing.”

“Good thing that never happens, then,” Stiles says. He’s watching her closely, and Derek suddenly wonders with a jolt of unpleasantness if Stiles _likes_ his sister. They’ve always had a quick, back-and-forth banter to their relationship; Stiles isn’t afraid to tease Cora, and she’s definitely not slow to thwack him on the back of the head if he goes too far. Derek… Derek could see them together. They would work.

It just wouldn’t work for _Derek_.

He turns a little to look at Christie. She’s talking to Isaac now – he’s doing the warm, welcoming thing he does with new people, getting them to open up to him – with her mouth open and her hair falling into her eyes. She’s nice, so nice, but Derek realises suddenly that he should never have brought her here. Perhaps it’s not his fault, since he only just realised it, but he’s never going to want to be with her. He likes her, but not that way. How can he? He’s in love with Stiles.

Which… is not what he’d expected to end that sentence with. But it’s true. Stiles is warm, and funny, and kind, not to mention beautiful and brilliant, and Derek – Derek has been in love with him for a long time. It just took that decision to move on for him to get past the darkness enough to see it.

He’ll have to tell her. At least he doesn’t have to feel stressed about it; she specifically told him that it would be okay if he just wanted to be friends. Maybe they can even still hang out – she seems really nice, and actually maybe into Isaac right now. He looks over at Stiles.

Well, maybe once he’s sorted out the situation with Christie, he can think about approaching the situation. Maybe. Derek’s not really used to putting his heart on the line; it had been hard enough asking Christie out, and he already knew she liked him. Stiles… Stiles is different. It’s not like he thinks it will change their friendship if Stiles turns him down – he has more faith in Stiles than that – but the thought of actually trying to verbalise the sudden hot _want_ that’s boiling inside him feels impossible. How can he do that? How does anyone do that?

“Der? You okay?”

Apparently, Stiles has been watching him. For a moment, Derek thinks he can feel Christie’s eyes on him as he steps across the wooden floorboards to talk to Stiles, but when he looks she’s as deep in conversation with Isaac as ever. They’re talking about bowling, about Cora who just scored a strike, about nothing in particular as far as Derek can see.

“Hey,” he says as he approaches Stiles. Stiles tilts his head, smiling a little bemusedly, and Derek realises that that doesn’t really make sense in the context. He shakes his head. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

Stiles’ eyes flicker over to Christie. “Cool,” he says.

“I can get you some food if you want,” Derek offers. “Or we could go to Taco Bell.”

Again, Stiles glances at Christie. “Taco Bell is next door,” he says slowly.

Derek looks up at the scores on the screen; it’s Isaac’s turn, and he’s still chatting to Christie as he selects a bowling ball. She’s smiling, seeming totally unconcerned by Derek’s lack of attention. “We’ll be back before your go,” he says. “We could get some for everyone. Since we can’t get McDonald’s.” He stops, feeling awkward.

There’s a pause before Stiles speaks, and his gaze is piercing. Then he turns to Cora. “We’re going to get some Taco Bell,” he says.

“Spicy double chalupa,” Cora says without looking up from her phone. Stiles turns back to Derek with a grin.

Derek looks past him at Christie, feeling a little guilty. She looks… pretty, and innocent, and she gives him an encouraging smile. He says: “Do you want something?”

“Sure,” she says. “You pick.” She smiles again, and Derek breathes, relieved. She obviously doesn’t mind him leaving her with Isaac and Cora to pick up the food. He’s not sure if he should really feel bad, exactly – this is only their second date, after all, and they’ve been clear that it’s not necessarily romantic – but he doesn’t want to upset her. She’s a nice girl, and he likes her. Platonically.

He and Stiles walk back through the bowling place to get outside. Stiles gives him a sideways glance. “So, how’s it going?” he asks, nodding back towards Christie. She’s laughing at something Cora said, which is either because she’s afraid of her or trying to impress her, because if there’s one thing Cora is not, it’s funny.

Derek shrugs. “I don’t know,” he says. He bites his lip; it kind of feels like Stiles is giving him an opportunity, but he can’t take it. Not while he’s still out with Christie. He lowers his voice. “I don’t think… I don’t think it’s going to be… a thing.”

Stiles flashes him a quick smile. “No?”

Derek’s heart suddenly feels like it’s beating a little too fast. “I don’t think so,” he says again.

There’s a pause, while Derek pushes open the door to Taco Bell, holding it for Stiles. There’s a small queue of people leading up to the counter, and they join the back of the line; the lights feel just a little too bright, and Derek has to force himself to concentrate on the dull navy blue of the shirt the man in front of him is wearing.

“So, like, is there a reason?” Stiles asks, his voice unexpectedly close. Derek suppresses a jump. He looks at Stiles; he has an odd smile on his face, making his eyes light up in a way that makes Derek’s stomach clench. There are laughter lines around his mouth, and Derek has the unaccountable urge to push his hair back out of his eyes.

He has to shake the thought out of his head. “A reason?” he says.

Stiles shrugs. “That it’s not working out. With Christie, you know? Like… was there something that put you off?” There’s something strangely hesitant in his voice.

“No,” Derek says. “I mean, it’s not her. I just don’t…” He looks sideways at Stiles. “Feel it,” he finishes. This feels like it’s true, even if he’s missing out part of the story.

“Fair enough,” Stiles says. He hesitates. “You’re not, like, giving up, though, right? On dating?” He exhales. “I mean, I kind of think it’s good for you. Like you’re, I don’t know—”

“Moving on,” Derek says. “That’s… I mean, I’m trying to. Move on.”

Stiles tips his head to one side, and so Derek explains the project to him. He tells Stiles about Cora, about trying to let the past lie and actually be happy. Or something. Stiles listens intently, frowning in concentration, and when Derek has finished he cracks a wide smile.

“I think that’s awesome,” he says. “Seriously, dude.”

There’s a moment where Derek just kind of lets himself feel pleased with Stiles’ praise, and then he leans forward and kisses him.

As he’s leaning forward, he has the brief and frightening thought that maybe he’s making a huge mistake. Maybe Stiles doesn’t feel the same way about him, maybe he’ll freak out, maybe this will ruin everything. It’s not like he has very much to go on, other than a few sideways glances that make his stomach fizzle, but fuck it. He’s given it his best shot. And if Stiles does turn him down—

Stiles kisses him back so enthusiastically that Derek actually trips over just a little bit. His mouth is hot, his hands running up Derek’s sides, clutching at the back of his shirt, pressing his body into Derek’s. Derek feels himself shudder deliciously as Stiles’ fingernails scrape at the back of his head, his tongue sliding into Derek’s mouth. He tastes like vanilla and Cheetos, and Derek groans as he kisses him back.

“Oh my God, get a room!” They break apart as the bubble gum-popping teenager in the line behind them whines loudly. Stiles turns around to glare at her.

“Okay, this is probably the greatest moment of my life, so you’re not going to ruin it,” he says. “But seriously, shut the fuck up.”

“Rude,” the girl says, but she winks at Derek.

Derek blushes, but he can’t help but smile. Stiles turns back to him. “Sorry,” he says, sounding embarrassed. “Too much?”

Derek shrugs. “It’s okay,” he says. “I should have… Sooner.”

“Nah,” Stiles says. He grins, his face light and happy. “This was good, _good_ timing.”

The rest of the bowling trip is… fine. Nowhere near as eventful as the part at Taco Bell. Derek doesn’t kiss Stiles again; it doesn’t feel right, not with Christie still waiting with Isaac and Cora. They order the food for the group and stand just a little too close together while they’re waiting to collect it.

“So,” Stiles says as they walk back outside.

“So,” Derek says. “I… want…” He stops, and Stiles waits. He looks… mischievous.

“You want?” he prompts.

Derek rolls his eyes. “You,” he says. “Asshole. But…” He gestures towards the bowling place with his chin.

Stiles nods. “Sure,” he says. “Okay. So… tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow,” Derek agrees firmly.

He tries to be friendly to Christie for the rest of the trip, although it’s difficult when Stiles keeps grinning at him from across the booth, cheering way too loudly every time Derek knocks over so much as a single skittle. Christie doesn’t seem to notice anything amiss, spending most of the evening talking to Isaac and flashing Derek quick smiles whenever she catches his eye.

Afterwards – Cora won the bowling – he drives Christie home, opening the car door for her.

“Thanks,” she says. She smiles. “I’ve had a good time.”

Derek gets into the car. “Me too,” he says. He hesitates, turning the engine on. “Christie, I think…” He stops. Stiles would so be able to do this better than him.

“Always dangerous,” Christie says as they pull out of the parking lot. She looks across at him. “Are you okay?”

He forces a laugh. “Yes.”

The trees outside are dark, drifting just slightly in the breeze. It’s easier to watch the road than it is to look at her. She says: “Your sister’s, like, really good at bowling.”

“Yeah,” Derek says. Then, abruptly: “You know how you said it was okay just to be friends?”

There’s a pause, during which the only sound is the whistling of the wind outside the car. “Yes,” she says, sounding just a little wary. Derek doesn’t say anything for a moment; they’re nearly at her apartment, and he kind of wishes he didn’t have to do this. For some reason, his heart is pounding stupidly in his chest, like somehow he’s sensing danger.

He squashes the feeling down. “I’m really sorry, Christie,” he says. “I just don’t… feel it.” He stops, satisfied with his explanation. It’s the truth, anyway, and after two dates he’s not sure he owes her any more than that.

Another pause. “Oh,” Christie says. She doesn’t sound upset or even disappointed. She sounds… flat. He looks over to her; her face is hard. “I see. Okay.” She takes a deep, slightly shaky breath.

Derek pulls up outside the drycleaners. “Sorry,” he says again. “I really would like to be friends though, if that’s still… on offer.”

There’s an odd, prickling tension, as though he’s said something unforgiveable; Derek suddenly feels chilled. Christie turns her head to look at him. There’s something oddly cold in her eyes, something old and cruel that makes him flinch. “Friends,” she repeats, her voice suddenly harsh and biting. “With me? _Friends_?”

Derek blinks. “Um. Yeah?” he says, although even as he says it he’s changing his mind.

“It’s that fucking kid, isn’t it?” she snaps, and her voice is changing too; it’s lower, harder, older. “Little dimples, the one you went to get Taco _fucking_ Bell with, right? Right?”

Derek reels, shocked, away from the force of her sudden temper. Every nerve is tingling, a warning. “I think you should get out of the car,” he says evenly.

“Oh, sure,” she says nastily. “I’ll get out of the car. And you’ll get what you deserve. I can promise you that.”

As she speaks, a loud crackling noise comes from somewhere over in her region of the car, and then there’s a sudden flash of blinding white light. Derek blinks, snarling involuntarily, because he can smell smoke and sulphur and something deep and old and evil, and Christie – whatever she is, she’s not human. He can smell it on her, something unnatural that he doesn’t quite recognise.

“What are you?” he hisses. His face is shifting, hair sprouting from his cheeks and chin as his teeth stretch and pop into fangs.

“Witch,” she spits, as though it should be obvious. “I’m a witch, you fucking feral werewolf, and fuck you for leading me on.”

Even in his anger, Derek whines with confusion. “You said… you said we could take it slow – see how we felt—”

Her face looks completely different now, twisted and pale and raw. Her eyes are flashing bright green, unnaturally so, and there are lines striping her face that weren’t there before. It’s clear that she’s much, much older than she first appeared. She yowls angrily at his words. “You weren’t supposed to – everyone likes me! You were supposed to like me best!”

That’s when Derek realises that she’s basically another Jennifer Blake, and his heart drops to the floor, because seriously? Can he not ever catch a break? “Psycho,” he growls, because that’s what Stiles would say if he were here.

“You’d like to think so, wouldn’t you?” she snarls. “Well, good luck getting him to kiss you now. That’s the only way you’ll break the curse.” Another flash of light shoots from her hands, her wrinkled scaly hands, and Derek screws up his eyes against it.

When he opens them again, she’s gone.

*

The first thing Cora says to him, after he’s arrived at home and breathlessly told her the entire disturbing tale – minus the part where he kissed Stiles, of course, because there are some things his little sister doesn’t need to know – is: “He’s rubbed off on you.”

“What?” Derek says, nonplussed. “Who has? What are you talking about?”

Cora shrugs. She’s got a large mug of hot chocolate in her hands, and she takes a generous sip. “Stiles,” she says. “Once upon a time you’d have run in after her.”

Derek can feel himself frowning. “I didn’t know what would be waiting for me. There might be an entire coven. Cora, this is serious!”

“Two years ago you wouldn’t have given a shit what was waiting for you,” she says, once again demonstrating a ridiculous talent for focusing on exactly the wrong thing. “You came home. You came for back-up.”

“Cora,” he growls. Then he stops. “Are you… Is that a good thing?” He suddenly feels almost shy.

Cora stares at him like he’s being the worst kind of idiotic. “Yes,” she says slowly, her eyes wide.

“Oh,” he says. There’s a pause, during which Derek wrestles with both embarrassment and a certain pride.

Cora sighs. “Can it wait? I’m fucking tired, Der. Pack meeting tomorrow?”

“Sure,” Derek says, nodding slowly. He’s feeling kind of… weird. His skin is itching, like he wants to shift, but there’s no reason to do it; it’s late, and although Christie had been completely whacked, she hadn’t actually done anything to him. He doesn’t need to solve this problem tonight. But still… “I’m going for a run,” he tells Cora.

She frowns. “Okay,” she says. She hesitates. “Stay close to the house.” Which means she’s worried about him. Maybe she thinks he’s changed his mind, that he’s planning on chasing Christie down himself, but honestly the thought hasn’t even crossed Derek’s mind. The concept of taking down a coven of witches is… exhausting. It can wait until the morning.

He just wants to run, and not just half-shifted the way he was in the car earlier, but as a wolf. He wants to let all the confusing swirls of thoughts and emotions wash away, to run and howl and be free under the moonlight filtering in through the sparse trees outside. He can’t describe what it feels like to be fully shifted, not even to Cora, because he’s never met another werewolf who can do it; Malia did it, once, as a coyote, and somehow, he can feel that she misses it sometimes, but it’s like she’s forgotten how. It was a symptom of her feral state, not the blissful thing it is for him. He can still remember, can still feel what it means to be human when he’s in the body of a wolf, but it never seems as important as the feel of bare earth underneath his paws, the breeze ruffling his fur.

He wakes up the next morning at home in his bed, although how he got there feels just a little hazy. It’s not that he can’t remember the time he spends as a wolf, but his mind processes memories differently in that form. Vaguely, he remembers the thrill of running, of letting everything he was feeling drift off into the wind, and then returning home to curl up in his bed. It’s difficult to maintain his wolf form when he’s asleep.

The sunlight coming in through the open curtains is strong and clear in a way that tells him he’s slept in late. For a moment, that doesn’t seem to be a problem – and then he remembers.

“Shit. Christie,” he spits. The events of the previous night come flooding back in: the kiss, the witch, the light in her hands, the ominous sense of foreboding she left him with. Derek sits up. His head feels heavy.

He’s naked – it’s not as though wolves wear clothes – so he reaches out to snag a pair of jeans from the chair in the corner of his bedroom. His eyes are hurting, his face stiff like he’s hungover, although he’s never been drunk and certainly wasn’t last night. It feels as though his skin is too thick, and suddenly he remembers Christie’s last words.

_Good luck getting him to kiss you now. That’s the only way you’ll break the curse_.

Did she… curse him? Can witches do that? Derek hasn’t had much interaction with witches, but everything he knows about them seems to imply that they’re gentle creatures, fond of dancing under the full moon and being at one with nature. Basically glorified hippies. They have power, but it’s rarely used malevolently. Christie… Christie must be an exception. Did she… _could_ she have done something to him?

He pulls on his jeans almost blindly. His face is really beginning to sting now, and suddenly he’s frightened. “Cora!” he bellows. He can hear her moving around downstairs, her careful quiet footsteps instantly recognisable to his sharp ears. From the smell of it, she’s making coffee.

She stills at the sound of his voice, and Derek heads out of his room and down the stairs. He’s not quite running – doesn’t want her to see the fear in his gait – but it’s a fast walk.

“Derek?” she says sharply as he clatters down the stairs, his bare feet loud and clumsy. “There’s no need to shout, I can hear you perfectly w—” She stops abruptly as he comes around the corner into the kitchen. Her mouth falls open. “Holy _shit_!”

Derek halts in his tracks. “What?”

Cora’s face is the picture of shock. Her brown eyes are wide, and the colour has drained from her face. “Fucking hell, Derek… what did you _do_?”

Now Derek is starting to feel anxious. “ _What_?” he growls. What did the witch do to him?

“Your _face_ …” Then, unexpectedly, Cora starts to laugh. One hand comes up to cover her mouth, and she actually _snorts_. “Derek. Don’t tell me you haven’t looked in a mirror today.” At Derek’s clearly nonplussed expression, her laughter dies down. “Shit, Der. Is this the witch?”

There’s a mirror on the wall above the couch in the living room behind him. Slowly, Derek turns and walks towards it. He has no idea what could give Cora such worry – and also such hilarity – but he can feel his heart pounding as he approaches his own reflection. What the hell did Christie do to him?

There’s the mirror. He looks into it.

The person he sees there doesn’t look like him. The person he sees there doesn’t look like _anyone_ – doesn’t even look like a person. Derek can hear a high-pitched whine somewhere in the air, and he realises it’s himself – his own response to what he sees. To what he looks like.

He’s a clown. An actual, real-life clown. His face is painted a bright white, which is probably why his skin feels so itchy and clogged, and there’s a stupid overdrawn red smile over his mouth curving into his cheeks. His eyes are covered by a pair of bright blue diamonds, with enormous curved black eyebrows painted above them. And his nose…

Derek reaches up to touch it. The round, red blob attached to the end of his nose isn’t the removable costume that normal clowns wear at children’s birthday parties. It feels as though it’s grafted onto his skin.

Similarly, the enormous mass of orange curls on top of his head is sadly not a wig. When he tugs them, it hurts. It’s his own hair.

“Cora,” he moans faintly. He actually thinks he might be sick.

He feels her hand on his bare back. “Hey. It’s okay,” she says softly, although he can still hear the muted laughter behind her words. “I have make-up wipes.”

Derek buries his head in his hands, which is not as comforting as it might have been because it means he’s looking down. He jerks up sharply, hands clutching at his pants.

“These were jeans!” he exclaims. “I put on – they were jeans!”

Cora looks down at the baggy, diamond-patterned trousers his jeans have somehow morphed into. She bites her lip, clearly holding back more mirth, which is so unfair because this _isn’t funny_. “Oh,” she says.

“Oh,” he repeats flatly. “That’s all you’re going to say? Oh?”

“Oh dear?” she tries. She giggles. “Come on, Der. It’s not that bad. She’s clearly trying to get some sort of petty revenge. We’ll wash it off… well, I might take a photo, and _then_ we’ll wash it off, and you’ll laugh about this in maybe twenty years or so.” She’s smiling as she finishes, which clearly shows she hasn’t inherited the appropriate Hale pessimism genes.

“Cora,” he spits. “My hair is orange. Not a wig, my hair. My nose is…” He touches his nose again, unwilling to describe exactly what it’s become. He grits his teeth. “My pants turned into… into… _pantaloons_!”

At that she really does lose it, melting into a cacophony of giggles which quite frankly just feel cruel. Derek bites his tongue to stop himself snapping at her; as difficult and humiliating as it is to be the object of her mirth, he can’t help but like the sound of her laughter. It’s been a long, long time since he last heard her laugh like this. She looks so pretty when she smiles, her bedhead in disarray around her face.

At length, she stops laughing, walking into the kitchen and returning with a damp cloth. Derek eyes it suspiciously.

“Oh, come on, lighten up,” she says. “Witches are basically glorified hippies, yeah? They’re not allowed to hurt people. So you went on a date with a slightly psychotic one. Better luck next time, right?”

Derek huffs, but allows her to press the wet cloth to the side of his face. It’s _not_ funny – but he has to admit that he would have trouble keeping a straight face had it happened to literally anyone else. He’d probably be able to see the funny side even now, were it not for the fact that yet another date had gone sour, yet another romantic prospect turning out to be crazy.

“I have the worst luck with dates,” he mutters. Cora snorts, and then stops abruptly.

“Um,” she says. There’s an odd sound to her voice; he turns sharply to look at her.

“What?” he says.

In answer, she holds out the cloth she’s been using on his face. It’s totally clean, not a speck of paint on it. Derek looks up to meet Cora’s eyes. She’s not laughing any more.

“Shit,” she says simply. Derek thinks that covers it quite nicely.

*

The bookshop is small, tucked away down a side street that Derek has never been down before. It’s actually kind of pretty, in a Ye Olde kind of way, with big dusty hardbacks in the diamond-paned window and a hand-painted sign. Derek, hidden under the umbrella that Cora is helpfully holding over his head – any time he takes it, it turns into a giant rubber flower – reaches out to the blue front door, pushing it open so aggressively that it crashes into the wall, tiny bell jangling madly.

They ended up calling Isaac. This is not something Derek remotely wanted to do, but Cora argued quite effectively that he’s pack, and pack should handle their problems together. Stiles and Isaac are the only Beacon Hills wolves home from college this weekend – Derek is pretty sure they came back specially to support him on his date with Christie, which makes him feel both warm and awkward to think about – and Derek is not calling Stiles.

“He’s pack,” Cora objects.

“He’s human,” Derek says flatly. “I agreed to call Isaac. That’s enough.”

Maybe the finality he feels showed on his face, because Cora left it at that, although her eyebrows lifted just slightly. She called Isaac – who promptly laughed himself silly at Derek’s ridiculous get-up – and then the three of them made their way to Christie’s apartment.

She wasn’t there. Derek wasn’t really expecting her to be that stupid; she must know that she’s pissed off a high-ranking werewolf, and witch or not, she’s no match for his pack on her own. So he heads for the bookstore that she told him her sister owns instead, figuring that she might have tried to hide with family. Even if she didn’t, threatening her sister might draw her out. Not that he wants it to come to that.

He’s trying to stay calm about the whole thing, but the more time goes on, the more ridiculous and embarrassed and _furious_ Derek feels about what Christie did to him. Derek has been hurt before, so many times, by so many people, but he’s never been so humiliated as he is now, particularly when there’s absolutely no cause for it. He was as honest as he could be, and now she’s punishing him for it. And not just him; not only does he have betas who rely on him, who can’t afford to have him out of action – he may not be Alpha any more, but with Scott away at college he’s as good as – but there’s Stiles.

Because Derek isn’t stupid. He remembers the conversation at the bowling centre the night before quite clearly. Stiles has a phobia of clowns so bad that he wouldn’t even go near a fucking cardboard cut-out of Ronald McDonald, and it’s no coincidence that Derek has now been magically transformed into one. Christie picked up on the tension between him and Stiles, and she’s chosen this – this humiliating revenge – as a way of getting back at both of them.

It’s one thing to punish him. He’s used to it. He almost seems to attract it. But Stiles?

That’s not on. And so Derek is fuming.

Fortunately, there are no customers in the bookstore, because Derek thinks they might be a little freaked out to see a full-grown clown frothing at the mouth and flashing his eyes from under an umbrella in the shop. Cora looks murderous, and Isaac fierce. For an instant – a very quick instant, because there’s very little about the situation that Derek is happy about – he’s just grateful that he has them, that they’re here with him.

He recognises the blonde woman behind the counter from the diner where he first met Christie, which must make her the sister – Lori? Now that he’s looking for it, it’s instantly obvious that she’s not human. She’s witchkind, just like Christie, and he bares his teeth in a purely animal gesture and _snarls_.

“Oh, Jesus,” she says. Her voice is deep and throaty. “Fuck. Bernie!”

Isaac growls, teeth showing. The sound is heavy with threat. “Don’t call anyone,” he warns her, taking a step forward.

“You know who we are,” Cora says, her voice equally menacing. “You know what we can do. Don’t fucking move.”

Lori holds up her hands, which is somewhat unexpected. She has an anxious look on her face. “We don’t want any trouble,” she says. She casts a worried glance at the door behind the counter. “We’re very sorry—”

The door swings open, and a small, slightly rotund man wearing glasses steps through it. He looks so gentle and mild-mannered that Derek is almost shocked into withdrawing his teeth, but then he sniffs, and growls again. The man is a witch as well.

He looks between Lori and the weres, and his bemused expression settles into realisation. “This is about Christie,” he says.

Lori nods, and looks back at Derek. “This is Bernie, my husband,” she says. “Please, we’re good people. We don’t condone what Christie did.”

It doesn’t _smell_ like a lie, but Derek snarls anyway. “What _did_ she do to me?”

Bernie and Lori exchange glances, the latter biting her lip. “She cursed you,” Lori says. “I’m sorry. She’s being punished. That’s not what we witches believe in.”

“Punished,” Cora repeats. Lori nods eagerly.

“I can show you,” she says. She reaches out her hands in front of her, palms facing the floor. There’s not much space behind the little counter, so she’s almost touching its surface, fingers spread apart. Derek suddenly has a feeling of foreboding; he leaps forward with a muted cry, but it’s too late.

A soft yellow glow appears around Lori’s hands, growing stronger and stronger and lighting up the little store. There’s a faint humming sound in the air, although Derek can’t tell where it’s coming from, and the pages of the books on the shelves all around him start fluttering in a phantom breeze that ruffles his hair. All three of the werewolves have sprung towards Lori now, and Cora is snarling furiously, but then Lori stops, opening her eyes, and the light fades away.

Lori looks between their angry faces. “I should have warned you about the magic,” she says apologetically.

“Fuck you!” The scream comes from somewhere between the bookshelves, and Derek turns sharply at the sound of it. He steps past Isaac, who is now fully transformed into his beta form, and looks around the edge of a cabinet, sniffing delicately.

It’s Christie. He knows it’s Christie even before he sees her, because he can smell her unnatural unpleasantness in the air. The scent wasn’t there before; Lori must have summoned her from some other place. There’s a faint smell of burning rubber, as though the use of the magic has worn through something, and when he glances back at Lori he can see that she looks tired.

Christie, on the other hand, looks murderous. She’s kneeling on the floor behind the cabinet, still wearing the same outfit she had on the previous evening; her hands are bound in front of her with some kind of curling green vine. There’s an odd scent to it that tells Derek it’s magical. Her hair is a wild tangled mess around her shoulders, and her face is contorted in rage. She doesn’t look like the wizened, lined old crone that Derek had briefly caught a glimpse of in the car, but nor does she look like the pretty young woman he had met in the diner. Her cheeks are hollow, her mouth twisted in a nasty sneering grimace, all flashing sharp teeth and curled lips. Her eyes are wide and ancient, screwed up in wrath and crowned with flat angry brows. She barely looks human.

“You animal!” she howls when she sees Derek. “You fucking _dog_! Fuck you! Fuck you all!”

In his peripheral vision, Derek sees Bernie twist his hand in a quick, fluid motion, and Christie is abruptly silenced as though she’s been gagged. He turns back to the witches. “What is she?” he asks quietly.

Lori bites her lip. “Her mother has harpy blood,” she says.

“I thought you were sisters,” he says stupidly. She smiles wanly.

“Sisters of the coven,” she says. “I have summoned the rest. They’ll deal with her appropriately.”

Cora steps forward, her face swiftly morphing into beta form. Her eyes flash amber. “You should _never_ have let her meet my brother,” she says fiercely.

“I’m sorry,” Lori says, spreading her hands. She looks weary, and older than Derek remembers from the diner. “We had no idea there were weres here. We brought Christie here for a fresh start; she’s had troubles in the past. When she took an interest in you, I thought it was a sign that she was moving forward. I didn’t know what you were. Her instincts for the supernatural have always been much better than mine.”

Derek closes his eyes, letting himself inhale and exhale slowly. Lori sounds sincere, and there’s no flutter in her heartbeat to indicate that she might be lying, but none of that helps him right now. “Okay,” he says, still keeping his eyes shut. “I know what you’re asking.” He opens his eyes, letting them glow amber briefly. “I’m not the Alpha,” he says.

Lori sighs, looking at Bernie. Her husband steps forward. “I know we’re asking a lot—”

Cora snorts. “A lot?” she says incredulously. “Look at my brother! Look what you did to him!”

“It wasn’t us—” Lori tries.

“You should have been more careful!” Isaac says, speaking for the first time in a deep voice. It’s so rare for him to sound so authoritative that Derek stops in his tracks. He goes on: “She was your responsibility. Now we’ll have to take this to our Alpha, and he’ll decide what to do about it.”

“Please,” Lori cuts in. “Please, it was unintentional. We’ll leave this place. And Christie will never be allowed in society again, please, I promise…”

Bernie speaks again, his voice calm and unflustered in comparison to his wife’s. “We’re a peaceful people,” he says. “We have our own laws which Christie has broken, and she will pay the price for it. Please, do not start a war with us. Our people do not have defences against werewolves, and many will die for our lack of judgement.”

“Anything we can do, we will,” Lori adds.

Derek can see what they’re saying. Clearly, Christie is not indicative of the rest of her kind, which frankly is a relief; it means that they don’t actually have to face another danger, another monster. However, technically it is Scott’s call, and honestly, he’s still pretty pissed about the ridiculous costume he’s still fucking wearing.

“Undo the curse,” Isaac says, which Derek should have thought of first. Cora nods emphatically.

Lori’s eyes widen. “But surely… All curses have a counter!”

“Undo it!” Cora demands loudly.

“We can’t,” Bernie says, sounding a little fearful. “A curse, once cast, can only be broken by the counter. Christie should have told you the key to breaking it when it was cast – it is one of the laws of magic.”

Derek pinches the bridge of his nose; he’s beginning to develop a headache. He can feel the coarse orange curls brushing against his forearm as he lowers it again. “You can’t break it?” he says wearily.

“No,” Lori says. Behind him, Christie suddenly doubles up in silent, yet completely recognisable laughter, and he wheels around furiously.

“How do I break it?” he hisses at her. He turns back sharply to Bernie. “Let her speak!”

Bernie flicks his wrist again, and Derek looks to Christie in time for her to say slyly: “You’ll never do it.”

“Never do _what_?” Cora says angrily.

Christie is suddenly, eerily calm. Her face seems to flatten into a deadened mask, her hands stilling beneath the vine wrapped around them. “He knows,” she says, nodding to Derek. “He knows what he needs to do.” Then she closes her eyes, clasping her hands together, and begins to hum softly under her breath.

Isaac turns to Derek. “Did she tell you? When she cast the curse?”

Derek can feel himself flushing, because yes, of course she did. As soon as Bernie began to explain the laws of curses, he had known exactly what the key to breaking this particular one would be. What had Christie said? _Good luck getting him to kiss you now. That’s the only way you’ll break the curse._ And who else could she mean but Stiles?

It makes so much sense now that he understands that he has to kiss Stiles: transforming him into Stiles’ worst nightmare wasn’t just petty revenge. It was a way of making it that much more difficult for him to break free of the curse.

Cora is glaring at him. “Derek,” she says. “Spill.”

He blushes. “I have to… kiss. Someone.”

Cora makes a sound like she’s either laughing or choking, but Lori and Bernie both nod as though that’s totally reasonable. “Do you know who?” Lori asks in a business-like kind of way.

Derek very deliberately does not look at Isaac, aware of his probing curious gaze. “Yes.”

“Well, that should be easy enough,” Lori says. “They must like you, you can’t have a kiss-breaker that doesn’t already have feelings for you.”

Derek thinks about this. Stiles does have a phobia of clowns, yes, but Derek is pretty confident that to save Derek – or at least, to stop him from being humiliated like this – he’ll suck it up and kiss him. Close his eyes, or whatever. “I guess if I just call h – them, and tell them—”

Lori makes a scandalised sort of sound, and Bernie holds up a hand. Derek is starting to have to fight the urge to maim them a little. “You can’t do that,” Bernie says. “If you tell the kiss-breaker—” God, Derek _hates_ witches “—about the curse, their power to break it will be lost. They must kiss you of their own volition.”

There’s a silence. Derek says tightly: “That might be a problem.”

“Oh my _God_ ,” Isaac says, and Derek closes his eyes. “Is it _Stiles_?”

*

“I _knew_ it,” Isaac says.

“Shut up.”

“So did I,” Cora crows.

“Shut _up_ ,” Derek growls. They’re standing outside the Sheriff’s house; he already knows that Stiles is at home, because he can hear the familiar rabbit-fast heartbeat, smell that unique blend of coffee and laundry detergent and library books that is just so _Stiles_ , but he’s stalling about actually knocking on the door. Stiles is going to freak out. He’s going to think that Derek is mocking him, making fun of his fears, and Derek – Derek can’t stand that.

They’ve come up with a rudimentary plan, of sorts; Cora and Isaac are going to go in first, to explain that Derek has been cursed by a witch. That will explain why Derek is inexplicably dressed like a clown, and hopefully prepare Stiles enough that he’ll let Derek in. Then… then the plan gets hazier. Cora and Isaac will make some sort of excuse, leave, and then hopefully… hopefully Stiles will want to comfort him. And hopefully, that comfort might come in the form of a kiss.

There’s a lot of hopefulness in their plan.

They checked it with Lori and Bernie, who assured them that Stiles can know about the existence of the curse as long as he doesn’t find out his own role in breaking it, and then got the hell out of the creepy-ass bookstore. The witches are leaving Beacon Hills, which can’t happen fast enough as far as Derek is concerned. They left things intentionally vague regarding whether or not they would tell Scott about the incident; they all know Scott well enough to know that as long as they’re gone, he’ll have no intention of pursuing the witches, but Derek thinks it’s good for them to have a little fear over it. Serves them right, he thinks savagely.

“Okay,” Cora says, breaking into Derek’s aggressive train of thought. “Let’s go. Come on, Der.”

“Yeah, this is Stiles,” Isaac says, going for friendly and just coming out amused. “He’s your friend. And the witch said that he must like you a bit.”

Derek rolls his stupid painted eyes. “I _know_ he likes me,” he says irritably. “I’m not worried about him liking me, I’m worried about _him_!”

There’s a brief silence. Then Cora cackles. “Aw, Der-Bear, that was almost romantic.”

“Shut up.”

Isaac is looking at him closely. “You know he likes you?”

Derek swallows. “What?”

“You said you know he likes you,” Isaac repeats. He tilts his head curiously to one side. “Did something happen between you guys?”

That’s what he gets for moving on enough to actually talk to his friends. Derek looks at the floor, embarrassed. Cora raises her eyebrows. “Holy shit,” she says. She actually sounds impressed. “I thought it would take at least another six months.”

Derek looks up sharply at that, in time to see Isaac elbowing her in the ribs. He frowns, but decides to let it go. “Let’s just get this over with,” he sighs.

He can see that Cora, particularly, is storing up a whole lot of mockery to hit him with later, but for now she swallows it down, and Derek is profoundly grateful for it. Hell, if Stiles will just kiss him and end this ridiculous curse, he’ll probably laugh along with her; the thought of getting to be with Stiles is making him feel warm and jittery inside.

If it hadn’t been for Christie’s stupid curse, he’d probably be with Stiles right now. Maybe they’d be out at the diner getting milkshakes, or sitting on a park bench somewhere talking, or just watching a movie, arms brushing as they sit side-by-side on the couch. He hates that Stiles is probably starting to wonder why he hasn’t called, if it means that he regrets what happened the night before, when the truth is so completely opposite to that. When it was one of the most important things that’s ever happened to him.

Stiles is just so… beautiful. And warm. And gentle and funny and completely ridiculous, with poor motor skills and a penchant for sarcasm, comic books and being way too smart for his own good. He’s brave, and kind, and he cares about Derek – he cares about _everyone_. And now Derek can’t even knock on his front door, can’t walk in and kiss him the way he wants to, because Stiles has a phobia of the exact way that Derek looks like right now and Derek—

Derek gets what it feels like to have a phobia. He didn’t contribute to the discussion at the bowling alley, but he doesn’t think it would have shocked anyone to hear what he’s afraid of. Stiles would never turn up at Derek’s front door with a lit torch, and Derek won’t do the equivalent to him either.

He watches from across the street as Cora knocks on the door, Isaac beside her, and hears the uptick in Stiles’ heartbeat as he comes to answer it. God, there he is, tall and scruffy and sleepy-eyed and just fucking _beautiful_ , which is ridiculous because Derek didn’t even realise he was in love with Stiles until yesterday, but now he can’t stop feeling it with everything he’s got.

“Hey, Stiles,” Cora says clearly, and Derek knows she’s making sure he can hear her. “Can we come in?”

Stiles hesitates, looking between her and Isaac. “O-kay,” he says slowly. “Everything okay?”

“No,” Isaac says bluntly. Stiles doesn’t ask any more questions, opening the door so that they can step past him into the house. He doesn’t look up, doesn’t see Derek standing across the street, but Derek can hear that his heart rate has picked up. He’s obviously concerned.

From now on, Derek has to rely on his ears to tell him what’s going on. There’s a brief pause, which presumably means that they’re all walking through to the living room and sitting down, and then Stiles says: “What’s going on?”

“Derek isn’t hurt,” Cora says, which is just about the worst possible way she could have put it. Derek’s stomach does a funny flip.

“This is about Derek?” Stiles’ voice is an octave too high. “Is he okay?”

There’s a hesitation, some shuffling, and then Isaac says: “He was cursed.”

“By a witch,” Cora adds.

“That _bitch_ ,” Stiles says. “I _knew_ there was something off about her.” Which is a revelation to Derek, because Stiles gave no indication that he had an issue with Christie; it’s interesting, he thinks, that Stiles immediately figured out that Christie is the witch, although it’s no less than he expected.

“You did?” Isaac says. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

Stiles’ heart jumps. “I guess I thought I was imagining it? Like, I wanted her to be evil because—” He stops abruptly.

“Because you’re ga-ga over my brother,” Cora supplies, sounding bored.

“Shut up,” Stiles says, sounding remarkably like Derek himself. “What did she do to him?”

The silence that follows this question is longer this time. This is going to be the hard part for Stiles; for him to face his fear enough to look out of the window, to be okay with the way Derek looks now. Isaac takes a deep breath, and says: “Stiles, she turned him into a clown.”

“What?” There’s an anxious edge to Stiles’ voice, nervous to the point of laughter, and it makes Derek ache for him. “What did you say?”

“Derek didn’t want to come in himself because he knows you don’t like clowns,” Cora says. “The witch, like, cursed him. He has face paint on that won’t come off. His hair is orange.”

“His clothes keep turning into a clown costume,” Isaac puts in helpfully.

Stiles takes a deep, shaky breath, which makes Derek wonder just what happened to him to make him so afraid of something so innocent in the first place. “She… turned him into… a clown?” he repeats, sounding both upset and disbelieving.

“Yes,” Cora says.

“Did she… do it on purpose? Because I said… because of me?”

There’s a pause. “We don’t know why she did it,” Cora says, rather unconvincingly in Derek’s opinion. “Apparently she was pissed that he rejected her.”

“Oh,” Stiles says in a small voice. Then, bravely: “Where is he?”

“Derek?” Isaac says, as though Stiles might be asking about someone else. “He’s outside. Across the street.”

“He is? You are?” Stiles says, and suddenly he’s talking to Derek, must be aware that Derek can hear him. “Shit, Der, this sucks. Are you okay?”

Derek actually feels himself choking a little on how much it means that Stiles would ask. “I’m fine,” he manages stiffly.

“He says he’s okay,” Isaac says. Stiles hums disbelievingly.

“He wants to see you,” Cora says. “He didn’t want to freak you out.”

There’s another pause, and then the gauze curtain by the front window twitches. Derek steps forward, crossing the street as Stiles’ face appears at the glass, looking out at him.

He tries to imagine what Stiles is seeing right now; the pantomime version of the man he kissed last night. The hair, the awful protruding red nose, the loud clashing clothes and enormous oversized shoes. The white face and large painted red mouth. It makes Derek shudder just to think about it, so he can’t imagine what it’s like for Stiles, who has an actual fear of clowns. He stops in the middle of the road, his heart pounding, waiting as Stiles looks at him.

“Oh my God,” Stiles says. His heart is thudding so hard and so fast that Derek thinks that even an ordinary human being could hear it. “Oh my _God_.”

His breathing is starting to pick up, and Derek hastens forward. “Isaac,” he spits out.

“Hey, Stiles, it’s okay,” Isaac says immediately. He appears at the window, reaching out to touch Stiles’ arm. Stiles, Derek realises with some concern, is trembling. “Stiles?”

“Shit,” Stiles is muttering. “Oh, _shit_!” His body is really shaking now, so much so that the curtains are shifting around his twitching arms. Still, he keeps his eyes fixed on Derek, as though he can’t look away; his breaths are coming harder and faster, his chest heaving. Derek can hear the sound of them, laboured and heavy.

He starts forward again. “He’s having a panic attack,” he says. “Isaac, take him away from the window.” Stiles’ forehead hits the glass with a heavy thud. “Isaac, _now_!”

Stiles barely seems to be in control of his own body, the tendons standing out on the backs of his hands as he pants against the window, each breath fogging up the glass a little. Derek forces himself to stop running; clearly he can’t help Stiles, and suddenly he feels sick. This is his fault. The ashen white caste to Stiles’ face, the sweat on his brow, the trembling in his limbs – it’s because of him.

Isaac takes Stiles by the shoulders, tugging him away from the window, and after a few moments, Stiles disappears. Derek doesn’t move, watching the empty spot where Stiles had been standing. He can still hear him breathing, can hear Cora and Isaac soothing him, talking him down, and all he wants is to be there. To help. But he can’t.

“Der,” Cora says from inside the house. Her voice is full of pity. “Der, maybe you should go home.”

And Derek, hating himself and his stupid, _stupid_ fucking hair, turns and runs away from Stiles, away from the nasty desperate sounds of his panic attack. He lasts about half a mile before he shifts, his face changing underneath the paint plastered over it, hair growing across his cheeks and fangs sprouting from his mouth. He pushes it further, falling down onto all fours and feeling his ridiculous clothes rip as he transforms into wolf form.

It's a blessed relief to be a wolf, to feel all the anxiety and awfulness of the last few minutes lift just slightly. He feels… natural. He’s not cursed as a wolf; this is a form he’s accustomed to, one he likes, feels comfortable in. There’s no face paint, no stupid clothes, no wig or red nose or any of it. He’s just… himself.

Himself.

Derek stops in his tracks, suddenly inspired. He doesn’t look like a clown, not in this form.

He can be with Stiles.

Turning, he races back to the Sheriff’s house at top speed, the wind whistling in his large furry ears. Suddenly he’s exhilarated, enjoying the feel of the damp road beneath his paws, because he’s solved it. He’s found a way. He can see Stiles, be with him, even if not in the way he had planned.

He hears Cora saying his name – half exasperated, half impressed, if her tone is anything to go by – as he gets within earshot of the house. He doesn’t wait for her comments, bounding up the front steps and barking loudly at the door. Isaac opens it, a small smile on his face.

“He’s okay,” Isaac says, nodding towards the living room. “Cora told him you were coming back.”

Derek already knows this, because he heard her, but he can’t exactly answer Isaac right now. He gives a little yelp of acknowledgement, trotting past Isaac and into the front hall. The house smells like Stiles, like good food and paper and family. Derek has to fight the urge – pure wolf – to rub himself against the walls, putting his own scent in the mix. He walks down the hall and into the living room.

Cora is there, sat on the couch beside Stiles; she looks up as Derek comes in. Stiles still looks pale and shaky, but he’s not panicking anymore. He gives Derek a weak smile.

“You must think I’m so fucking pathetic,” he says. Derek leaps forwards, nudging Stiles’ hand with his nose. He doesn’t think Stiles is pathetic. He actually thinks he’s really fucking brave, but he can’t say that right now. He contents himself with licking Stiles’ wrist.

“Are you good?” Cora asks, standing up. Stiles nods at her gratefully.

“Yeah,” he says. “Thanks.” Derek isn’t really listening; he clambers up onto the couch, curling up into the sofa cushions. Stiles is warm, but not as warm as Derek. Tentatively, he lays his large head in Stiles’ lap, whining in satisfaction when Stiles’ hand comes to rest between his ears.

For a few moments, neither of them move. Derek is listening as Cora and Isaac leave the house, waiting for them to be out of earshot; Stiles fondles Derek’s ears in an absent-minded sort of way, blunt fingernails scratching his fur. It sends tingles down Derek’s spine.

Then Stiles says: “I’m really sorry, Derek.”

Derek whines, low in the back of his throat. Stiles has nothing to be sorry for.

Stiles looks down at him. His eyes are watery, but he still looks beautiful. Derek licks his hand, and Stiles laughs, stroking Derek’s head again. He smells like warmth and comfort and home. He looks up at the ceiling, exhaling in a long deep stretch of breath.

“It’s my mom,” he says. He puffs out a mirthless laugh. “It always comes back to my mom.”

Derek can feel himself tensing; he shuffles a little closer to Stiles on the couch, nudging him in the ribs with his nose. For a moment, Stiles’ fingers tighten in Derek’s fur, like maybe he’s trying not to cry, but then he relaxes.

“I hated going to the hospital,” he says. “I still hate hospitals, but Melissa works there, so I guess I’ve kind of got over it, you know? Plus I’m accident-prone. I can’t avoid going to hospitals.”

Derek licks Stiles’ arm again. He gets that; after losing so many people, he so totally gets that.

Stiles sighs again, his fingers moving in Derek’s fur. Derek whines happily, nuzzling in closer. Stiles says: “They got to know me really well there when mom was in hospital. The nurses… they were really great. They always tried to cheer me up.” He hesitates. “One time, the guy who volunteered down on the children’s ward came up to see me.”

Derek yelps a little; he feels like he can see where this is going. If he were human right now, he’d be pointing at himself; as it is, he licks a long stripe up Stiles’ arm.

“Gross,” Stiles says without heat. He hugs Derek closer. “Yeah, so he was a clown.” He looks sideways at Derek. “You already figured that out, right?” Derek barks, and Stiles laughs. “It was horrible,” he says, abruptly serious again. “I was fucking terrified. I was eight years old, and this dude in weird make-up starts trying to crack jokes over my mom’s hospital bed… He scared the crap out of me. I was crying, practically in hysterics.” He pauses. “That was the first time I had a panic attack.”

Derek licks Stiles’ hand again.

“You have to feel sorry for the guy, really,” Stiles goes on. “He tried super hard to make me laugh, and I basically just had a meltdown. He’d only come up to my mom’s room as a favour to one of the nurses. I was… traumatised. And then—” He sucks in a big, gulping breath. Derek nuzzles his hand, and he exhales shakily. “They’d just calmed me down, I guess. The nurse was trying to show me that it was just a guy, you know, that there was a man under the costume, so she had me out in the hall with him, lifting up his wig and stuff. And then my dad came out of my mom’s hospital room.”

There’s a long, pregnant silence. Derek doesn’t move, afraid to even breathe too hard, because he knows Stiles has come to the crux of his story. He just waits, listening.

“His face was all red,” Stiles says. “He was crying. He didn’t have to say anything. I just knew. And I guess I just looked up and saw this clown, with his white face and massive eyes, and I knew my mom was dead, and he just…” He sniffs, and Derek sees with some consternation that there are tears in his eyes. He whines softly.

Stiles smiles faintly. There’s a thick frown on his face. “Every time I see a clown, I go back there,” he says quietly. “Every time I see their white faces, I remember what it felt like to see my dad that day and know that my mom is gone.”

*

The next few days are… mixed, for Derek. It’s bad, because he still can’t talk to Stiles, still can’t be around him in human form – but he _does_ get to spend time with him. Stiles takes some time off college, which makes Derek’s insides twist, because he’s doing it to help Derek; he stays up at night sometimes, diving into research on his laptop, to see if he can find any way of breaking the curse. Derek gets Cora to tell Stiles that Deaton is working on a solution, but that doesn’t deter him.

“Deaton is an idiot,” he says crisply. Derek, sitting on the floor beside Stiles’ desk, barks in agreement. “He may have ideas, but he’s so caught up in being fucking mysterious—”

Cora shrugs. “Okay, so?”

“So, I’m going to keep looking,” Stiles says forcefully. He looks down at Derek. “We’ll get you back to normal, Der, I swear.”

Which, of course, makes Derek feel even worse. He knows how to break the curse. And it’s not that he doubts Stiles – not at all, actually – but he’s pretty sure that there’s only one way of getting himself back to normal.

What can he do? He’s not allowed to tell Stiles that a kiss would be all it takes, but he can’t force Stiles to be with him as a human. The memory of Stiles’ pale, tearstained face after that panic attack is too searing for him even to try again. He can’t be the one to put that kind of fear in Stiles again, not after what Stiles told him about his mother. He’d rather spend the rest of his life as a wolf.

Cora, however, doesn’t see it that way. “Derek, you’re being ridiculous,” she tells him firmly one evening. Derek has been with Stiles all day, and she finally dragged him home to actually spend some time as a human being; he’s sitting on the sofa, picking moodily at his patterned trousers. “Can’t you just… get him to get over it?”

“Get over it,” Derek repeats flatly. “Get over the crippling phobia left over from the greatest trauma of his life?”

Cora throws herself into the couch next to him. “I get that it’s hard, Der, but you’re important too,” she says. “If he can’t work through it, you’ll be stuck like this.”

Derek grits his teeth, nails elongating before he can stop them. “Do you think I haven’t thought of that, Cora?” he spits. “What do you want me to do? I love him, I’m not going to force this on him!”

She blinks at him. “You love him?”

“Shut up,” he growls. He hadn’t meant to say that.

There’s an odd little smile on her face. “I’ve never seen you like this before,” she says thoughtfully. “You love him. Wow.” She grins suddenly. “Okay.”

Derek narrows his eyes. “Okay?”

“Okay,” she repeats, nodding. “You’ll figure it out.”

“Why the sudden faith?” he asks warily. Cora suddenly looks almost… cheerful.

She shrugs. “You love him,” she says. “And he’s clearly crazy about you.” She smiles happily. “There’s no way he’ll be able to go too much longer without kissing you.”

Derek doesn’t quite share Cora’s optimism, but it means something to him that she feels it. In spite of himself, it feels like his little project, his goal to move on with his life, is actually getting somewhere; Cora is a different person these days. She doesn’t seem quite so… disappointed. Disappointed in him, in her pack, in life – she seems happier. More focused. And Derek is happy for her.

As the days go by, he spends more and more time with Stiles, which is both wonderful and somewhat torturous. Stiles isn’t able to go longer than about twenty seconds without talking, so Derek’s life consists now of one-sided conversations, his own part delivered through yelps, barks and licks. He feels like he’s bonding with Stiles, like they’ve had about ten dates all rolled into one, and it’s amazing. He’s learning things about Stiles he never knew before, when he’s curled up into Stiles’ side on the couch, or walking alongside him through the preserve, or lying next to each other on Stiles’ bed. Stiles just talks, and shares, and Derek soaks it in.

“I wish you could answer me,” Stiles says one afternoon. They’re wrapped up together in Stiles’ bed; Stiles touches him everywhere as a wolf, running his hands through Derek’s fur and cuddling into him in a way that makes Derek ache to hold him as a man. “I feel like you’re finding out all this random crap about me, and I don’t know anything about you.”

Derek whines, licking Stiles’ face, because that’s ridiculous. He loves Stiles’ random crap.

“Play a game with me,” Stiles says firmly. Derek barks, and Stiles laughs. “I’ll say a statement, and you bark if it’s true.”

Derek nips at Stiles’ wrist, unimpressed.

“Come on,” Stiles cajoles. “Look, I’ll start easy. Favourite colour. Black, right?”

Derek nips Stiles again. What is he, twelve?

“Red?” Stiles guesses. “Blue? Green—” Derek barks, and Stiles grins delightedly. “Green? Your favourite colour is green?” Derek barks again. “See, I’m learning more about you already.”

So the days turn into weeks, and Derek and Stiles learn more random crap about each other as the warm October leaves shrivel into November chill. Stiles has to start going back to some of his classes, but he’s still staying with his dad to be closer to Derek; the Sheriff has by now got used to the fact that he basically has a massive black wolf living with him. He starts making meals for Derek, actually pets him when the three of them are watching a movie together one evening, and when Stiles is at class, he manages not to laugh at Derek’s human form.

“I guess it’s good he has you watching out for him,” he says, eyes travelling from the orange hair down to the stupid boots. His face softens. “You really care about him, don’t you, son?”

Derek feels an odd, stabbing warmth in his gut. “Yes, sir,” he says. And they say no more about it.

He’s getting by, but it’s not easy. He does love Stiles, and he wants to do more than bark to get his point of view across. He may be a man on the inside, but at this point Stiles basically sees him as a particularly intelligent dog. And that’s not what he wants.

“So change back,” Cora says unsympathetically, flipping through a magazine.

“I can’t!” Derek exclaims. “I don’t want to hurt him.”

She closes the magazine, fixing him with a glare. “So what are you going to do? Become a children’s entertainer? Because I know I said I had faith in you, Derek, but I’d kind of like my big brother back.”

With that, she flounces off. She’s not wrong; Derek hasn’t exactly spent a lot of time with his sister, or with anyone apart from Stiles, since this entire thing started. He doesn’t have the excuse of being a wolf around anyone else, and he’s sick of the way they look at him – like he’s some kind of freak, in his stupid clothes with his ridiculous hair. He wants his old life back too. He wants the potential he had in Taco Bell, kissing Stiles during a group outing with his sister and his friend.

He heads over to Stiles’ place. It’s become a bit of a haven for him, a retreat from the shit he’s going through; being a wolf helps him to relax anyway, reducing the stress of the stupid curse, and Stiles will be there. Stiles – Stiles always makes him feel better.

The front door is slightly ajar, which means that the Sheriff is home. He always leaves it open for Derek now. Derek noses it further open, trotting inside and inhaling the familiar, homely scent of family and _Stiles_.

Stiles himself is in his room, watching a movie on his laptop; he looks up with a grin as Derek pads in.

“Hey,” he says. He pats the space on the bed next to him, and Derek leaps up. “You okay?”

Derek whines, and Stiles sighs. “Me too, buddy,” he says. He bites his lip. “I miss you.” Derek licks his chin, which has the desired effect of making Stiles laugh and push him away. “Yeah, okay,” he says. “I’ll stop feeling sorry for myself. I know it’s worse for you.”

Derek turns around a couple of times, settling in his favourite position: curled up around Stiles, with Stiles’ head resting on his flank. He knows Stiles likes listening to his wolf’s heart beating, digging his fingers into Derek’s thick black fur. He also has close proximity to Stiles’ face, so that he can lick it enthusiastically whenever he wants to make Stiles laugh.

“We’re watching _Jessica Jones_ ,” Stiles tells him firmly, reaching out to press play on the laptop. “No making me laugh during the serious bits.”

They watch _Jessica Jones_ , although Derek isn’t really that focused on the screen. Instead, he’s just aware of Stiles all around him; the warmth of Stiles’ cheek, nuzzled into the fur of Derek’s chest, the long slender elegance of his fingers touching Derek’s stomach, the honey smell of him, invading Derek’s senses. There’s nothing he wants more than just to be here, to be with Stiles, to have him safe and warm and happy, and in that moment, it doesn’t matter if he can only achieve it as a wolf. He has everything he could ever want, right here.

He doesn’t realise that he’s fallen asleep until he wakes up again. The room is darker, quiet around him, and Stiles is in his arms.

In his arms.

Derek freezes; he’s human. He’s fallen asleep as a wolf, and in the process, transformed back. For a second, he’s terrified that Stiles is freaking out, but then he forces himself to listen to Stiles’ quiet breathing. It’s alright; he’s asleep.

Stiles is so beautiful, so fragile, in sleep. Derek gently pushes a strand of hair out of his eyes, pressing a light kiss to Stiles’ forehead. It’s easier to ignore his… clown-ness, because he’s naked, so he’s not distracted by the awful clothes. It’s just his hair and his nose, at least that he can actually see, and he’s learning to ignore those. He lets a finger trail down Stiles’ cheek.

So many ways to touch him! He wants to touch every mole along the line of Stiles’ neck, kiss him right in the hollow of his throat, trace his collarbone, press kisses to his shoulders. Stiles has been so wonderful, so understanding, and not once has he let Derek feel alone in this. Derek wants, so badly, to do the same for Stiles.

“I love you,” he says, testing the words out on his tongue. They feel… true. He’s said it to Cora already, of course, but it’s different now that he’s saying it to Stiles. Maybe he’ll hear it in his dreams, learn to believe it. “I love you.”

Stiles shifts a little in his sleep, nestling in closer to Derek’s chest. Derek squeezes him tightly. Stiles has said so much, while Derek is a wolf; shared so much of himself with him. Suddenly Derek wants to return the favour.

“I’m so sorry, Stiles,” he murmurs. “It’s my fault you’re having to face this fear.” He stops, kisses Stiles’ hairline again. “I understand why she picked you,” he says softly. “You’re special, Stiles. You’re… special to _me_. And… in spite of all of this, I’m really happy that it’s you.”

He can feel Stiles’ steady, relaxed heartbeat thrumming through his skin; Stiles hums softly under his breath, and Derek bends his head to mouth at his shoulder. “I really, really love you,” he says quietly.

“Hmm,” Stiles hums, eyes closed. Derek is almost certain he’s still asleep, but he tenses anyway, ready to spring out of the way the second he wakes. “I love you too, Derek.”

It’s like Stiles has reached inside him and taken hold of his heart, giving it a good squeeze. Derek’s chest is tight with emotion, and he can only hold Stiles a little closer. It feels right to hear Stiles say it, to be here with him while they’re both sleepy and peaceful, and Derek feels… happy. Warm. This is what it means to move on; to enjoy spending time with someone that he cares about, without having to worry about anything else.

He closes his eyes, letting Stiles relax against him. He feels as though he could stay here forever, just holding Stiles, and screw Christie, screw the curse. None of that matters now, and he just holds Stiles a little closer and lets himself doze.

Derek wakes again as Stiles begins to stir in his arms. “Derek?”

“Shit,” Derek says eloquently. One strand of coarse orange hair is tickling the side of Stiles’ face. “Fuck, Stiles, close your eyes.”

“Hey, it’s okay,” Stiles murmurs, and that’s when Derek realises that he’s not really awake yet. “Derek, it’s okay.” He smiles in his sleep. “I love you.”

“I love you t—” Derek begins, but before he can finish speaking, Stiles leans up, eyes closed, and presses his lips against Derek’s mouth.

It’s a slow kiss, a sleepy kiss, and Derek melts into it, feeling the slide of Stiles’ tongue against the seam of his lips. He lets his eyes flutter closed, kissing Stiles gently, feeling his skin tingling as Stiles runs his hands up Derek’s arms. And around him, he can feel the curse lifting: his nose is shrinking, his unpleasant curls receding, the stiff paint on his face fading away, because Stiles kissed him.

Stiles kissed him.

He’s free now, and it’s that knowledge that has him lifting Stiles by the shoulders, kissing him with more fervour than before. Stiles responds with enthusiasm, struggling to turn around in Derek’s arms and cupping Derek’s face with his hands.

“Derek?” he pants. Derek kisses his mouth, his cheekbone, his chin.

“Yeah?”

Stiles pulls back, just a little, his eyes now wide and awake, and he gives Derek a blinding smile. “Dude,” he says. “Your face.” He grins even wider. “You’re back to normal.”

Derek is suddenly conscious that he’s naked; he smiles, feeling a little bashful. “You kissed me,” he says. He reaches up, pushing an unruly lock of hair behind Stiles’ ear. He looks beautiful and mischievous.

“I did,” Stiles says, almost wonderingly. He looks up at Derek, touching his face. “Was that it? Me kissing you.”

Derek scratches his ear. “Um. Yeah.”

“You’re an idiot,” Stiles says, and Derek—

Derek can’t argue with that.

*

It’s December, and the rest of the pack are returning to Beacon Hills for Christmas. Snow is glittering on the ground underfoot, and the trees around Derek are bare and spindly against the clear wintry sky. Part of him itches to transform, to run and bound in the snow and howl at the clouds, but he’s spent enough time as a wolf lately. He’s waiting outside the Hale house for all of them to arrive, Isaac standing at his side. Cora, who doesn’t like to admit to anyone that she cares, is indoors.

Scott is the first one to get there, Malia on the back of his motorcycle. He looks… older. Mature. There’s something carefree on his face that Derek doesn’t remember being there when he left. College has obviously agreed with him over these last couple of years.

He gets off the bike, helping Malia down, and strides over to hug Isaac, and then – to his surprise – Derek. “Hey,” he says, clapping Derek on the shoulder. “Back to normal, then?”

Derek blushes. Cora sent pictures of him during the clown phase to _everyone_. “Yes,” he says. Then: “Shut up.” Scott just laughs.

Malia is her usual scratchy self, although being with Scott seems to have softened some of her rough edges. She actually smiles at Derek when he nods to her, and takes Scott’s hand easily when he offers it to her, sliding her fingers between his. Derek still has to remind himself that she’s his cousin; he’s seen her a little more often than the others in the pack, because Peter often requires a companion when he sees his daughter, and Derek has been keen to build a relationship with the little family he has left. Sometimes Stiles comes along too, although his history with Malia can make it awkward.

The little pack, as Cora is fond of calling them, arrives next: Liam, Corey and Mason, all piled into Mason’s car. They feel more like Scott’s territory than Derek’s, but they still greet him politely enough. He and Isaac are the old guard, while they’re the new pack members. Derek gets through it quickly; they’re not who he’s waiting for.

Lydia’s car pulls up at almost the same time as Theo’s, which Derek has mixed feelings about. Theo isn’t quite a part of the pack, but he still attends the meetings, and seems to get on well with the younger set fairly well. Scott, at least, has forgiven him, although Stiles feels a lot more strongly about it and has informed Derek frequently of this fact. Theo gives Derek and Isaac a cursory nod, going straight over to Liam and Corey to talk to them.

Lydia is friendlier, kissing Derek on the cheek, but he’s already looking past her, because Stiles’ Jeep is pulling in, a light coating of frost across the top of it. Lydia snorts, but he ignores it, because Stiles is here, and Derek hasn’t seen him in nearly three weeks.

“Derek!” Stiles exclaims before he’s even finished parking. Derek grins, too far gone to be embarrassed about it.

“They’re ridiculous,” Isaac says. Derek extends a middle finger without even looking back.

Stiles gets out of the car. “Happy Christmas,” he says. He almost sounds shy.

Malia makes a noise like she’s throwing up.

“I love you,” Derek says.

Stiles grins. “Yeah? And why’s that?”

Derek kisses him. “Because,” he says, pressing forward to kiss him, “you make me laugh.”


End file.
